There is always another perspective
by s.cinnamon
Summary: Some events from the BMT, re-told and added to, but more from Akkarin's perspective - roughly beginning with TMG. CHAPTER 16 - 'The Watcher' is up!
1. Prologue Returns

**A/N: Hey, hey! It's me again! Sooner than I anticipated. I'm here to subject you to another Akkarin obsessed fic again, so if you've already had your fill, best not read any further! **

**So, I think a little explanation is necessary before I begin and I'll try not to make it too rambling (don't hold your breath). This fic is basically going to be a re-visiting of the BMT trilogy, but more from my favourite High Lord's perspective. Whilst his mystery and magnatism are part of his charm , I found his voice annoyingly absent at times. I will re-tell some (not all! That would be crazy!) scenes, but allow his thoughts and feelings to be told. I will create entirely new scenes to tell abit more of Akkarin's back story ( especially for TMG where Akkarin doesn't figure much) but aim to draw on references from the books where possible and I will be sticking to the original storyline (except maybe the end of THL where I'm contemplating using my own alternative ending - thoughts on that please!). I am not going to write this in the first person however (except the opening gambit). For me, the Novice holds the most interesting material to be re-explored from Akkarin's POV, but, of course, TMG comes first, so I hope that you stick with me. The BMT and all its characters, flora and fauna, belong to Trudi Canavan; I'm just borrowing them because my imagination is rubbish! Now, without further ado... **

**Prologue – Returns**

Here follows an account of events leading up to the Ichani invasion of Kyralia as observed by Akkarin, Family Delvon, House Velan and former High Lord of the Magicians Guild of Kyralia.

_There is precious little time left to me to write this account. Even as the ink dries on the parchment I feel the fate that hangs over us drawing ever nearer. Eight of the outcast Sachakan magicians, known as Ichani, entered Imardin two days ago and, by my own and my former novice's hand, the sacrifice of the Guild, and by the bravery and resourcefulness of the poorest people of this city, five are now dead. Though my claims about the Ichani were not believed by my friends or peers, I know now that they no longer doubt our enemies cause or intent: the complete destruction of the Guild and the capitulation of Kyralia._

_I fear that another sunrise will see our enemy at the doors of the Guild, baying for their triumph, and a sure instinct tells me that before the sun sets on this next day, I will look upon the face of their leader at last. In truth, I cannot see beyond my own death and so it is now my duty to commit to posterity all I am able of the events that have occurred during the brief period of my exile from my homeland and during my return. I fervently hope that I do not record the events that will end with our final demise._

_I will not shirk in this duty, if the fates grant me sufficient respite. If we are overthrown, the Sachakans will seek to destroy or abuse the skill and wisdoms that we have gleaned over many centuries. They will dwell within the Guild, built for the purpose of learning by our ancestors, and they will consider themselves our equals – and maybe it has come to be, for, whilst we owe our origins to something above and beyond their morality, we have since lost our way. We have used our powers and the privilege they grant us to gain wealth and comfort. We have neglected those we considered beneath our merits, offering scorn when we should have offered succour._

_ I write these words as a warning to those who may come after; we sought to hide our history, burying it deep, along with our fear and shame. Forgetting our past weaknesses and failings, we grew bloated with the arrogance and certainty of our superiority and security. The Ichani are outcasts in their land; do not judge all Sachakans as harshly, for like us all, they are not a wholly good or bad people. When their day of retribution comes, as it surely will, I beg that you offer salvation from the slavery that has repressed their nation, and that you find it in your hearts to pity the ignorance and hate which will bring about their ruin as surely as, I fear, it will bring about ours._

_As I write these words, all that I love most in the world lies sleeping beside me and, as I watch her at peace, my heart aches that my fears will become realised and that I may not look upon her face much longer. Her name is Sonea, and she bears no grand title or family name, but I have learnt that, like many of her people, she has much to offer and give to this city and has a greater spirit than many who sit indolently in the vaulted halls of their mansion houses. Whatever the dawn may bring, I hope beyond hope, that she may escape hurt and death, for even my wandering soul, un-housed by my long dead body, could not bear the pain and guilt of her suffering. _

_And so, I come now to bear witness to those events that she and I have endured these last weeks. I will place this document into the hands of my faithful servant, who I have instructed to leave Kyralia if we are defeated, and deliver it into the hand of any friend of this country who, reading my account, will gain wisdom and will graciously come to the aid of a people who shamefully neglected their duties as victor in the Sachakan War, and are now paying the ultimate price..._

* * *

Eight years earlier.

With the arrival of the first birds of the warmer southern climes, the wet weather which had plagued the south-easterly provinces of Coldbridge since midwinter abated. Many looked to the open Eye of the moon that prevailed over the skies at this time and pronounced it a good omen. They may well not have done so if they had known the nature of the tall, black-haired man who reigned in his horse as it reached the thickly wooded summit of the hill on the far reaches of their farming land. Night covered the slopes below like a thick blanket and the gelding was uneasy - tired and rebellious beneath his solemn rider. The horse snorted and shook its head, smelling rain on the wind and eager to move on. Behind the first rider a darker skinned man with curious amber eyes brought his mount to stand next to the other. The horses whinnied and stamped at each other, as if giving voice to their impatience to reach their destination and days rest. The shorter, second rider turned to the other and studied him thoughtfully from underneath the hood of a cloak, a slight furrow creasing his brow.

The first man was oblivious to the scrutiny as he stared fixedly ahead and murmured a single word.

"Imardin." The second rider struggled to make out the softly spoken word but, as he followed the gaze of the speaker, understanding dawned. Below, and in the distance still many leagues off, a great convergence of twinkling lights could be seen amidst the surrounding darkness. Beyond the lights, the deeper darkness of the sea stretched in a forbidding line across the horizon.

"Your home," the darker skinned man whispered softly as he returned to look at his companion.

Any one time brief acquaintance of Akkarin's could have been forgiven for not recognising him at first glance. The five years that he had been away from the Guild had changed him beyond the measure of those years. Gone were the last vestiges of boyishness; the soft, if coveted, features of a privileged young man, supine from a life of comfort. Long dead was the carefree spirit of youthfulness in the near black eyes that gazed as hard and shining as jet towards the city that he never thought to see again. Taller than most Kyralian men, his was a powerful, long boned, if almost thinly gaunt frame; the one time softness of his face replaced by a sculpture of high cheekbones and strong jaw-line and a narrow aquiline nose setting of the fathomless dark brown eyes. His once carefully clipped hair was now a shoulder length tangle. And the changes went far deeper than mere outward appearance.

The self-assured, ambitious, even arrogant young man who had set out from the Guild all those years ago was nothing more than a pale ghost, almost transparent in his naïvety. Now there was experience and understanding of the world, far beyond his twenty-five years, in his eyes. A knowledge, dearly bought, of things that most Kyralians could barely contemplate; of a slavery and barbarism that had no place inside the civilised walls of the Guild. There was also something else in the set of Akkarin's jaw and the hard-line of his mouth; something that his proud shoulders and straight back could not disguise to those who knew what to look for. Loss and guilt weighed heavy on his graceful posture, as real as any physical burden.

His companion sighed and looked away from the man he had followed into this foreign land. As a former slave, there was nothing left for Takan in Sachaka. His family was long dead, all killed by Dakova, his former master. Akkarin had become the closest thing the Sachakan now had to a brother. He had been drawn to the strange Guild magician ever since Dakova took him as a slave. The Ichani had been particularly and cruelly attentive to the Kyralian; it had pleased his twisted ego to torment a magician of the infamous Guild. Takan had quickly befriended Akkarin, offering him what limited help, and unlimited sympathy, that he could. But Takan was not the only slave to offer such aid. Takan had watched, unable to offer any comfort, as Akkarin's hopeless love for Dakova's bed slave burgeoned and grew, and he had vicariously, but keenly felt the magician's despair and torment at her treatment and ultimate death at the hands of Dakova.

When, beyond hope, Akkarin had killed Dakova and had fled blindly into the Sachakan Wastes Takan had almost unthinkingly followed him, stopping only to gather food and necessities to keep them alive in their journey through the barren land. And so, against all odds, they now found themselves just one days ride from Imardin. Once they had reached Kyralia, Akkarin, whilst no longer resembling a powerful and dignified Guild member, had been able to prove his magical abilities and use his family name to gain food and rest, and even horses, along the way. Takan had fallen into the role of Akkarin's servant naturally, and no-one had dared to question the formidable and hard-faced magician as to how he had acquired a Sachakan servant.

"Master" – Akkarin had given up trying to dissuade Takan from using the overly deferential mode of address long ago – "Master, there is rain in the air; we should reach the stay-house and rest. We still have a long ride ahead of us tomorrow if we are to reach the city before nightfall. Master?"

Akkarin turned to Takan and smiled thinly, blinking away the moisture that had briefly welled in his eyes. "Yes, we should go," he said softly.

"Will we go straight to the Guild master? What do you plan?" the servant enquired. They had been so intent on reaching Imardin that they had spoken little of what they would do if, or when, they arrived there.

"I will go to my family home first. I need to...gather myself before I face the inevitable questions of the Guild. I have sent word ahead of our imminent arrival," Akkarin smiled wryly ," – I think my mother thought me long dead and will not believe it is me until she lays eyes on me." The magician then looked sharply at his servant. "Remember – they are to know nothing of my time in Sachaka, the Ichani or the existence of Higher Magic. I must think about what I must do with this knowledge, but for now it is to remain secret; do you understand?" His tone was sharper than intended and the horse whinnied and shifted nervously beneath him. Akkarin lowered his head and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I am sorry Takan. I owe you much and yet I repay you with harsh words. It's just...I cannot believe that I am nearly home. I never thought to see this day – never thought I _wanted_ to see this day," he added in a whisper.

"I understand master. Your secret will be safe with me – you know that, " Takan responded emphatically.

The magician raised his head and held the Sachakan's eyes steadily, thinking of the first days and nights of their escape and how Takan had dragged the bewildered Kyralian across the desert, forcing him to take food and shelter when Akkarin would have happily laid down and succumbed to his grief. "I would not have made it this far without you Takan. How can I ever repay you?"

"I am here. I am no longer a slave," the dark-skinned man replied simply. " The debt is already repaid. " The servant nudged his horse. "Though, feeding my growling stomach, albeit with unpalatable food, no doubt, could be deemed extra recompense." Takan's teeth flashed white in the gloom and his horse walked on past Akkarin and down the hill towards a track at the bottom which gleamed like a ribbon in the light of the full moon. A pale, low building lay some way along the road, and its lights sent out a welcoming glow . Akkarin looked once more on the distant city and murmured softly to himself.

"Until tomorrow then..." and he clicked his tongue, touching his heels to the gelding's flanks, sending it lurching impatiently forwards down the treacherous, but negotiable, bank. Akkarin stared straight ahead into the distance until the cluster of lights became consumed by the brooding mass of forest that lay beyond the road below and were lost to utter blackness.

**A/N: As always, thanks for reading and I would appreciate it if you could let me know what you think, as, if I plough through the three books, this is in danger of being a long one, and it would be nice to know if it's worth the effort.**


	2. Chapter 1 Imardin A Tale of Two Cities

**A bit of a filler, this one, but necessary to give some context, I think.**

**Chapter1. Imardin - A Tale of Two Cities**

"The others didn't come then," a low, guttural voice sneered as it's owner sank down to sit on a silken cushion, the edges dusty and grey from the sandy ground it lay on.

"I knew I was a fool to come at your beckoning," the man muttered, half to himself, as he gestured to a raggedly clad slave, that hovered uncertainly, to bring him some wine from the flagon he held. The speaker snatched the proffered cup and drank deeply from the watered wine it contained. He then glanced appraisingly at a richly tented pavilion that lay pitched some twenty paces away - the flares positioned around it causing its jewel-like colours to ripple and shine, absurdly opulent in the desolate and barren surroundings. The new-comer then finally looked to the man whom he had addressed; he sat cross-legged and staring into the flickering flames of a fire and his hair hung black and lank around a face that was a sickly shade of jaundiced brown. He picked at his teeth with a small, but intricately jewelled, dagger and small narrow eyes glittered as he glanced sharply to his new companion from beneath heavy dark brows. His mouth curled in a sneer as he spoke.

"Old habits die hard, Harikava; you were always one to defer pitifully to others in Arvice. Still, no matter, your weakness has brought you here and that is all to the good."

"What do you want Kariko? I only came out of my former acquaintance with your brother. Speak quickly or I will be on my way!" Harikava responded sharply. Kariko glowered dangerously back at his fellow Ichani and spat suddenly into the fire.

"Dakova's pet," Kariko stated contemptuously.

"What of him. He is long dead in the Pass, I'll warrant. Wild limeks are probably gnawing his bones as we speak." Harikava's tone was impatient and dismissive. A harsh, hollow bark of laughter came from Kariko's throat then his face suddenly sobered.

"No, he is not dead," Kariko said softly. "He managed to crawl all the way back to their filthy city and has made himself quite at home again."

Harikava looked at the other Ichani, his brows pulled together in query, his interest piqued. "How so?" he asked.

"I sent a spy into Kyralia – he informed me two days ago that the Guild have made Akkarin their leader. It seems he has used his new-found power to pass their tests and convince them to make him their High Lord."

Harikava considered Kariko's words a moment, then scowled. "And you brought me here to tell me this!?" He hissed in angry consternation. "I am not the one who had a pact of revenge with Dakova," he continued. "This is your business now; you waste my time!" Harikava upended the remains of his wine on to the sand and made to stand up. Kariko suddenly reached out an arm and a strong, bony hand restrained the other Ichani.

"The Guild do not know Higher Magic- don't you see?" Kariko demanded in menacing irritation. "Dakova's pet has made himself their protector, but he is just one and we are several. He could make himself emperor of the Allied Lands for all it mattered; he cannot withstand us alone." Kariko said vehemently as a feverish hunger sprang to life in his eyes.

"He may have taught them all Higher Magic," Harikava countered. Kariko released his grip on his companion's arm and relaxed back on to his cushion.

"No. I know Dakova let you read his pet's mind Harikava. You saw his pride and his revulsion for Higher Magic – a revulsion also held by the Guild magicians. I do not think that he will be so eager to reveal his true nature to them. The Guild is fearful and ignorant; they would have cast Akkarin out, not made him their leader. Do you see what this means? We can take the Guild and Kyralia with it. We can shake the foundations of the Allied Lands." Kariko's voice lowered and he glanced at his fellow Ichani solicitously. "We can gain back the favour of the king in Arvice, and then..." Kariko trailed off, raising his eyebrows and spreading his hands.

"How can we be sure that Akkarin has not revealed his secret?" Harikava's voice became clipped with sudden adrenalin, though his features remained tight and controlled.

Kariko leaned forwards and whispered harshly into Harikava's ear. "Test them," he answered. "See if they recognise Higher Magic when it is under their noses. See if they can overcome it. See how they like having their people picked off one by one."

Harikava held Kariko's savage eyes for a moment, then a cruel smile spread slowly across his face. "That sounds like good sport. What do you plan?"

* * *

The High Lord pulled at the upright collar of his ceremonial robes. The black silk was the same, but collar and hem were edged with gold thread and a gold sash was tied about the waist. This was only the second time he had worn them, the first being at his own inaugural ceremony only some few months before, and no amount of tugging softened the stiffness of them. Akkarin's comfort was not eased by the final, defiant fling of summer that caused the air to be unusually oppressive. He sighed and smoothed his hair as the carriage came to a halt in the outer courtyard of the Palace.

Today, the coronation celebrations for the new king would begin. The official mourning period for the old king was over and what would follow was five days of formal ceremony combined with an unusually abandoned rejoicing that particularly pleased the guests from the Elyne nobility.

Akkarin had never been entirely comfortable with court gatherings. They inevitably acted as a façade for the underlying political machinations and maneuverings of the Houses. Akkarin had always found them dull and tedious affairs and, as a young man, had usually skulked around the edges, wine glass in hand, and at the mercy of his mother and sisters who constantly prevailed on him to dance with numerous young ladies from other powerful Houses. Akkarin's brooding and scowling presence on the periphery of the room did nothing to still the fluttering of the girls' hearts as they dreamed about being the one to break through the chill of the most eligible young man.

Since Akkarin's unusual ability to read the surface thoughts of unknowing minds, without physical contact, had surfaced since his return, such formal occasions gave him a headache as the cacophony of snide and cruel thoughts of others reverberated around his head. Of course, he had learnt to control this gift and to maintain a smiling mask of polite, if cool, interest in the people who, as High Lord, he had a duty to converse with. He had pondered as to his strange ability, the power of which seemed to be constricted to people near to him; the further from him a person moved, the fainter their discernible thoughts became. He wondered whether it had come about from his gathering of extra power using black magic, or whether it was merely a quirk of nature that had matured - the Delvon family were known to produce powerful magicians. Whatever its source, the High Lord had learnt the advantages _and_ disadvantages of knowing the thoughts of his friends and colleagues and used the power sparingly. Akkarin's innate sense of courtesy also precluded him from reading his friends thoughts without their knowledge, and he had quickly learnt how to block them.

The first day of the coronation celebrations dawned brightly, the Sun rising into a clean-washed deep blue sky with only a slight breeze to mark the onset of autumn. Nobility and guests from every corner of the Allied Lands milled around the outer courtyard, their rich and brightly coloured clothes resembling the fabric markets of Lonmar. Outside the palace walls the sound of the city people could be heard as they converged on the Inner Circle, vastly outnumbering the arriving ranks of nobility. Traders, craftsmen, herders and players had all arrived in Imardin to take full opportunity of the profit that such a gathering of the wealthy offered. Amongst the throng of people were no small amount of slum dwellers who had come to find the truth of whispers that had gathered strength since the old king's death. Whispers that had fluttered like seeds on the wind and the Dwells had come to see if they were to be planted in the fertile land of the new monarchy, or fall barren on the stony ground of the palace courtyard. Rumours that the Purge was to end.

Such rumours couldn't be further from the minds of the assembled guests, however, as they filed into the inner courtyard of the palace and were carefully directed to seats, in order of their rank, by ushering stewards. The pale smooth stone of the palace had been newly scrubbed, the floors swept, and the bordering gardens tended to within a pruned leaf of perfection. In the middle of the courtyard a circle of grass gleamed like a giant emerald against the ochre of the surrounding sandstone. A small, open-sided pavilion had been erected on the circular lawn, resplendent in its brightly coloured billowing roof. Eager and rosy-cheeked children peered over surrounding balconies, stroking the fat, over-indulged palace zill that sunned themselves languidly on the balustrades. As the king entered the courtyard wearing full court attire and lacking only the circlet bearing the royal insignia, an impressive and almost eerie silence fell on the gathered guests.

Lady Vinara glanced obliquely at the tall figure of the High Lord that flanked her left side. He looked preoccupied; there was a disquiet in his eyes, and a restlessness in his manner. With an inconspicuousness perfected during long sessions in the Guildhall, Vinara let her hand find contact with Akkarin's. He felt the light touch and looked at her. Vinara smiled.

_-I think that Merin will be glad when this part of the proceedings is over, _she sent to him. Akkarin watched the King's stiff demeanor – already the burdens of responsibility were telling on the tense shoulders.

_-Thank the Eye it is only a short ceremony. I am sure he will enjoy the festivities to come, _the High Lord responded. Vinara thought back to the stories that abounded some years ago of a young Akkarin and Merin and their over-zealous love of wine. She glanced at the High Lord again. Though Akkarin had retained his love of wine, the aloof, austre man at her side now little resembled the man of the tales.

_-I am sure he will, but don't you dare get him drunk tonight!_ Vinara warned. Surprised and amused at the Healers forthrightness, Akkarin raised a dark eyebrow in mock chagrin, then abruptly his expression darkened and he moved his hand from out of her touch.

"I suspect I'll be too concerned with getting myself drunk to worry about Merin," he muttered under his breath, thinking of all the political and marital sidestepping he was going to have to do to tonight.

What?" Vinara had not heard him clearly. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Nothing. Let us concentrate on the ceremony."

* * *

The applause as the King concluded his speech was as properly sober as the occasion demanded yet there was an underlying impatience for the festivities to begin. As the King moved from his seat at the high table in the palace's Great Hall and the applause died away, a group of musicians at the far end of the room began the first notes of a formal set dance. Merin glanced around him for a moment, then held out his hand to Lady Vinara and led her onto the floor. From his own place at the high table, Akkarin watched proceedings with a slight smile on his face. It had been his suggestion that the king should choose the Head of Healers as his partner for the all important first dance; a diplomatic move to ensure that no noble family with designs on the future could claim their own eligible daughter had been slighted in favour of another by the, as yet, unmarried king. Being of middle years, and being a magician whose allegiances belonged to the Guild, Vinara could pose no subject for the speculation of court gossips.

As the evening wore on, many courted Akkarin's attention since they viewed him, as a known friend of the king, to be a sure route to Merin's ear. The High Lord found the flattery, machinations and occasional outright bribery, intensely annoying and his patience was running out. Suddenly he became aware of a presence at his side and he turned reluctantly, stealing himself for another encounter with an importuning father – instead he found himself looking into the vivid green eyes of King Merin. The king's face broke into a grin as he detected the barely veiled irritation on his friend's face. The king clasped Akkarin's shoulder in a brief gesture of greeting.

"Come Akkarin, the worst part is over. The first set dance is done and the wine and food are flowing." Merin gestured to a long table to one side of the room where an abundant display of food had been laid out on golden platters. The small delicacies piled on each plate were skilfully made and artfully arranged, looking more like elaborate pieces of art than food.

"Their attempts to marry us both off to their daughters will soon dry up – unlike the Anuren Dark, which, of course, is the plan," the King continued, grinning and gratified to see his expression mirrored on Akkarin's face. Since his return from his travels, his childhood friend had become strangely solemn, distant even, the King mused. It was not often that Merin saw a smile touch the magician's eyes as he once often had. Then the King scanned the room in agitation . "Where are the damn servants? I could do with some wine right now to fortify me."

"You've coped magnificently so far Merin," Akkarin observed with a flicker of amusement. "Your confidence in your speech did you credit."

Merin's eyebrows shot up. "From you that is high praise indeed!" he exclaimed, laughing. "There is your mother! It has been a while since I spoke with her – come." Akkarin followed the King's gaze across the room, raising an eyebrow as he noticed a slender and graceful woman at his mother's side.

"Ah, and I suppose my younger sister at her side has nothing to do with your sudden urge to exchange pleasantries with an aging woman?" Akkarin said sarcastically. "I am amazed she is still unwed...- damn!"

Alerted by the venom in the High Lord's voice, the King saw that his gaze had shifted and followed it. Cleaving with casual determination through the crowd towards them was a tall blonde haired, red-robed woman of exquisite beauty. "Your cousin," Akkarin said through clenched teeth. The King frowned.

"I know she can be headstrong Akkarin, but you would be the envy of every man in Imardin if you formed a connection with her. Weren't you intimate with her once anyway?" the King asked. Akkarin smiled wryly.

"I am not immune to the charms of feminine beauty Merin, and I cannot deny that she has that in abundance, but... we are too much alike, and I have a feeling that she would not be content with being just the wife of the High Lord." He glanced again at the approaching woman. "Now, if you will excuse me, I will leave you to the charms of my sister and be on my way." And with that, Akkarin turned and disappeared hurriedly through the arched doorway that led to the balmy and jasmine scented air of the gardens.

* * *

"Lorlen!" The black robed man called as he approached the balustrade where the Healer stood overlooking the spectacular vista of the formal gardens, illuminated by the light of many flares. As Akkarin came to stand next to Lorlen and casually leaned on the decorative stonework, the green robed man glanced at him and inclined his head in mock reverence.

"High Lord," Lorlen said solemnly but with a soft smile which widened as his face rose and met the scowling glare of Akkarin.

"Please Lorlen; you do not have to when there is no-one to hear," the High Lord muttered. Lorlen gave a short laugh.

"I cannot help myself, I'm sorry. It's just that, if I say it often enough, I might convince myself that my closest friend is now the leader of the Guild!"

Akkarin's expression softened. "If you ever become appointed to an exalted position, I shall remember to be equally merciless!" he said.

"Me?" Lorlen asked in astonishment. "Oh, I think my robes and sash will always be green," he said somewhat wistfully.

"I don't know Lorlen, your organisation and diplomacy skills are wasted on Healing. The Administrator has been mumbling about retirement lately and hinted, none too subtly, that he wants an assistant to hand the reins to," Akkarin said looking at his friend speculatively.

"You know what that position entails; are you trying to drive us both into early graves Akkarin!?" Lorlen exclaimed, taking a slug of wine and looking back to the gardens.

Akkarin frowned. "I sincerely hope not," he murmured. He too then gazed out at the gardens, lost in thought, but after a moment his eyes glazed over and his brow became creased in a slight frown. He became only dimly aware of what Lorlen was saying.

"...Akkarin? Have you had too much wine already? Akkarin?" Lorlen leaned forwards to regard his friend and Akkarin shook his head and turned to him.

"I'm sorry Lorlen. I...I have something to attend to. I think I'll slip away," he said abruptly. "I'll leave you to enjoy the gardens – and the company!" He added with a wry half-smile as he noticed a group of giggling young people from House Paren pass by on the terrace below. Lorlen grimaced and Akkarin clapped him on the back before striding away.

* * *

The High Lord mulled over the message Takan had conveyed through his blood ring whilst he had spoken to Lorlen.

_-Master, My acquaintance with family in the slums has told me of a third death. All the same signs as before and no obvious cause of death. I am worried master; your appointment as High Lord has alerted them. They have come for you already._

Akkarin did not share his servant's concerns that the Ichani themselves had come to Imardin. They would not risk themselves so readily, and the killings, whilst bearing all the hallmarks of black magic, seemed clumsy and opportunistic. Akkarin had spoken with the city guard and liaising magician and it appeared that the magical potential of the victims was weak. Also, the first two deaths had narrowly escaped being seen; the Ichani would not be so careless for such little gain, Akkarin mused.

_But one of their slaves might..., _he thought as he walked through the furthest perimeters of the Inner Circle. _I need to track this killer, and if he is what I think, I need to read his mind._

An angry shout and the slamming of a door broke his thoughts causing him to look up sharply, suddenly aware of his surroundings. He was now in the North Quarter. The tall and elegant merchant houses on the edge of the Inner Circle had given way to an incongruous jumble of large stay-houses, bol-houses and small, well kept stores of various nature. The streets, whilst by no means the neat imposing avenues that graced the Inner Circle, were relatively clean and unusually bustling at this late hour due to the extra trade to be had from the coronation.

As Akkarin strode purposefully on and under the North Gate, subtle changes crept insidiously on the landscape. The stores became less frequent and shabbier and the bol-houses became less inviting - sinister even; their cracked windows steamed with the fog of activity inside that was signified by raucous laughter and the odd sound of a skirmish. Unsavoury and suspicious faces peered from crumbling doorways and the odd painted whore leered at Akkarin invitingly before shrinking back into the shadows at one warning glance from his eyes.

The flagstones beneath the High Lord's feet became jagged and uneven and littered with rotting food and debris; the gutters that fell to either side swam with a foul looking slurry. In a short distance, the road bore so few flagstones that it was little more than a dirt track. Akkarin's dark eyes narrowed as he took in the randomly placed buildings, so dilapidated that they barely warranted the name. The pungent smell of stale filth,of bol and rotting food began to assail his nostrils. The repugnant odour grew as he drew further away from the officially designated areas of the city; the smell compounded by the heat and humidity until the air seemed thick with it and Akkarin had to stop himself from gagging. Skeletal zill, their coats matted and filthy, nosed around for scraps to fill their bloated and empty stomachs. Akkarin grimaced in disgust and dismay at the conditions he was witnessing that lay just a stone's throw from the main thoroughfare into the city. He pulled his cloak tighter, drawing the hood further over his face, as if he might be recognised; an absurd notion, he told himself, as no-one here would ever have seen him. No-one except...

_One of Kariko's slaves, who may have seen me when Dakova entertained his brother,_ Akkarin thought, and his face darkened. At that moment a young boy of no more than six years, painfully thin and wearing nothing on his filthy and calloused feet, suddenly shot out of one of the numerous side-alleys clutching a half-eaten bread roll. As he raced to cross Akkarin's path, he shot him an entreating glance and the magician slowed his pace.

"Hai! Stop that boy!" An urgent cry went up and a second later a sweating and red-faced guard appeared from the narrow alley. As the boy ran by he flashed a smile at Akkarin and winked. Such a spirit of defiance and survival was in the clear blue and sharply intelligent eyes, that Akkarin stopped in his tracks and his gaze followed the child until he darted into another opening and was lost to sight.

"Hai!" The puffing guard rushed by and glanced suspiciously at Akkarin's tall, still figure.

_So this is the Slums, _Akkarin thought grimly looking around him. _This is where the king and the Guild herd people every year. Then they find their way back into the city to try to find work and better themselves, only to be thrown out again the next year._ Akkarin's mouth became a hard line and a frown knitted his brow. _Like an unwelcome, stray zill begging for food at the door of an abundant kitchen._

A shrill, pained cry of a young baby that came from one of the decrepit shacks broke his musings. _Maybe I should talk to Merin, _Akkarin thought_, but for now I have other things to worry about, _and his black eyes hardened. _Someone else holds the slum-dwellers in equally little worth – only this person is killing them one by one, and, if I'm right, I am the only person in the Allied Lands who can stop them._

**Thanks for reading! Please review!**


	3. Chapter 2 First Meeting

**Chapter 2 – First Meeting**

The searching amber-brown eyes narrowed as they finally rested on the subject of their scrutiny; a figure that detached itself from a group of young people who were gathered in the far corner of the smoky and oppressively warm stayhouse guest room. The youngsters shared joke at the expense of one of their member, his scowl setting him apart from their laughing faces, and the figure that the amber eyes were now locked on moved away from the rest, slapping his scowling companion playfully on the back as he did so. As the boy turned, the owner of the strange eyes quickly surveyed and evaluated his intended target. As his master had taught him, he drew on a sliver of power and extended it outwards towards the approaching youth – he had been right! He _had_ detected the faint presence of magical power, unknown and hidden from the physical vessel that contained it. Pleased, the Sachakan slave now appraised the unwitting owner's physical threat.

With short, curling, near-black hair and a slight stature, the boy looked to be no more that thirteen years old; his smooth pale skin and delicate features owning that, as yet, he was far removed from manhood. As the Sachakan slave took in the roughly woven, patched clothes and cracked leather of boots that did not match, he resolved to follow the boy and, if the opportunity arose, make him his next source of power. No-one dressed in the boy's shabby manner could be valued, and therefore missed, by many, and that was all the better. As the boy walked towards the door, someone from the group called out and he looked back over his shoulder at his friends.

"Hai! Sonea! Mind you go straight back to your aunt and uncles' place. I don't want to get into any rub with Jonna – more frightening than any Thief she is!" a slightly squat, older boy shouted across the room. As the younger boy held up a hand in acknowledgement of the request, he turned a still radiantly smiling face back in the direction of the watching Sachakan, and the amber-eyed man suddenly realised his mistake, wondering momentarily how he could ever have made it.

The graceful curve of the smiling lips and the echoing light in the dark brown eyes, framed by black arching brows, had transformed the pleasantly androgynous face into one that unmistakably belonged to a girl. A slight furrow appeared in the smooth, golden-brown brow of the watcher, but it was quickly replaced by a calculating, leering grin. So what if it was a girl? She was probably a couple of years older than when he had judged her a boy; he could have some fun with her before he took her power. Smug with his find, and sensing the approval of his master through the blood gem at this throat, the Sachakan slave fell into step behind the girl as she walked out of the stayhouse and onto the dark street, momentarily bracing herself against the blast of icy rain that stung her warm, glowing and still faintly smiling, face.

* * *

"He's a magician. I don't like it," the pockmarked and vacuous-faced youth hissed into his companion's ear.

"We don't know that," the other responded. He was older, heavy-set and of short stature and, like his companion, he was dirty and unkempt in appearance. The two leant towards each other across a gnarled and stained wooden table. The bustle of the bolhouse around them was cheery and good-humoured, though that could abruptly turn on one too many mugs of bol, or a misconstrued glance in the wrong direction.

"Of course he is," the younger of the two continued anxiously. "Remember the only time we set eyes on him? Had that air about him he did – haughty, I'd say; proud and superior, just like them that help clear us out of the Slums like we're nothing," the youth's half-broken voice rose shrilly, " he's a magician I tell you!" He sat back, crossing his arms staunchly and shooting his companion a look that conveyed he would not be convinced otherwise.

"You can think what you like Leno, " his older friend scowled," but them messages we send go to Delva at the whorehouse down at the port, and she passes them on to old Heston at Sewer Gate – who knows where they go from there. Maybe our employer is the king himself!" he exclaimed irritably. "I wouldn't know him either if I met him- holed up there in that grand palace of his!" The man cleared his throat and spat on the floor contemptuously. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Truth is Leno, I don't much care who he is; he pays well and gets rid of foreigners who seem to be mixed up in these killings."

Leno remained unconvinced and frowned into his mug. "We've done as he asked – looking for any foreigners that turn up out of the blue, skulking around and wearing red-gemmed jewellery; then getting rid when we get the sign where to find 'em after he's dealt with them. Why does he want to meet with us again, Tark –answer me that? Ain't seen nothing of him since that first meeting and now he wants to see us. I don't like it!" Leno shuddered and lowered his voice. "I know he kept his face hidden under that hood an' all, but I had one glimpse of them eyes and that was enough. Black they was, dark, even by Kyralian standards – and I ain't just talking about the colour! He's seen, or done, things that have no place in this city, and I'm not sure I want any more to do with it!"

Tark shot a scorching glance at Leno and opened his mouth to reprove him, but, at that moment, the door to the bolhouse opened, letting in a gust of howling wind and driving rain. As the door shut out the miserable night again, the two companions glanced round and looked straight into the dark eyes of the newcomer who had entered. Leno's features drained of all colour and he swallowed hard. The stranger nodded once in their direction before making for the bar and ordering a mug of the best wine on offer. Leno and Tark exchanged anxious glances but did not speak. They watched, rooted to their chairs, as the man took a mouthful of wine, grimacing at its strong and rancid flavour, and then moved towards them casually.

_...Look at him; like some harbinger of death from me old ma's tales. Still, his coin's good enough, so let him play the mysterious stranger, I don't much care..._

_...Something about him – something dangerous. Thinks nothing of killing them men...something unnatural...ain't even any injuries on them bodies to warrant their death. I don't want to be the next one..._

The corner of Akkarin's mouth twitched as he cast out a thread of power and reeled in the thoughts of the two men he had come to meet. Some of the magicians at the Guild had wondered if their High Lord's abilities stretched to reading unknowing minds. It did, of course, though no-one truly believed it, or would dare to ask even if they considered it possible. These two Dwells, however, would never even give it a thought. Over time, the gift had helped instil admiration and fear in equal measure, but now, as Akkarin casually sat down opposite the two men, fear was the only emotion that exuded from them, as potent as their rapid breath that fanned the High Lord's face unpleasantly with the odour of stale food and bol. Akkarin suppressed a grimace of revulsion and instead turned a well practised, if cold and faint, smile on the men. He raised the battered metal cup of wine he held, as if in greeting.

"At least look as if you know me, even if you cannot manage to look pleased to see me," Akkarin said softly and his eyes flashed from the shadow of his hood. Tark cleared his throat hastily and then belatedly raised his own mug nervously. Akkarin regarded them both intently.

"The last one was found," Akkarin stated matter-of-factly. "What part of you thought a shallow grave at the edge of a merchant house garden, was a good place to conceal my... work?" The magician spoke softly, though there was an edge to his voice that was as sharp as glass. "Did you think it would not arouse suspicions?" Akkarin leaned forwards and laid a palm down on the table . Leno remained silent, his eyes bulging, but Tark grinned apprehensively, flashing a mouthful of decaying teeth.

"The garden was overgrown; we thought the house was empty," he said earnestly and with as much confidence as he could muster. Akkarin ignored the excuse and instead fixed his dark gaze on Leno who visibly recoiled under the scrutiny.

"Your friend thinks he is funny," the High Lord said with a sarcastically disarming smile that did not reach his eyes. "He is not." The smile vanished and Akkarin leaned forwards even more, pinning the two men to their chairs with his scathing glance.

"I pay you good coin to bring me news of any strange travellers fitting a particular description; and even better coin to dispose of them once I have finished my business with them," Akkarin hissed. "So far, you have wasted my time with news of every waif and stray that comes through the city gates, and when I_ have_ sifted through your information and dealt with the correct men, you get rid of them with the innovativeness of a reber!" Akkarin's voice rose as he struggled to control a surge of anger at the ineptness of the two informants.

_Three years I have roamed the Slums, protecting their kind; if they knew the danger the slaves they find posed to them and their loved ones, they would be more thorough about their work._ Akkarin sighed. _I am familiar enough with the Slums now to know that some that live here have more to offer than these two. I need to find better people than this,_ he thought irritably. He took a deep breath to calm himself and leaned back purposefully in his chair.

"Now," and Akkarin lifted his hand on the table to reveal a glimpse of a velvet coin pouch, "I have heard of a death that occurred some two nights ago not far from here; have you anything of interest to tell me? Have there been any newcomers to the area?" Leno still sat rigid in a repose that suggested he would take flight at the first opportunity. His companion's sly acquisitive eyes flickered from the shadow of Akkarin's face to the hand on the table that covered the pouch. Tark then made a play of determined thoughtfulness.

"Ah yes!" he exclaimed. "Now that you mention it, there has been a man, such as you are looking for; arrived in the area 'bout a week ago." Tark licked his lips before continuing, "and, what's more, he has a gem too – wears it around his neck." Leno nodded eagerly, animated at last, and Tark sank back into his chair looking pleased with himself.

"Good. Tell me," Akkarin paused and his voice dropped dangerously low. "And there will be no more slovenliness. There will not be another warning – I think you understand me." An inarticulate noise escaped Leno's throat but Tark gave him a hard kick under the table.

"Of course, of course," Tark said with a cloying smile. "This man; bedded down at a stayhouse 'round the corner he is – or was, last I seen of 'im..."

* * *

Akkarin stood impassively in the shadows of a shabby bakehouse as first a slight figure of a boy, and then a dark-skinned man, left the warm glow of the stayhouse opposite. The boy paused to pull his threadbare cloak tighter around himself, trying to keep out the hostility of the blustery night that marked the battle between the seasons as they vied for supremacy. The man behind also paused, and as the two walked off in the same direction, there was something about the predatory way the man moved that sounded a warning bell in the observing High Lord's mind. He reached out with a thread of power and captured the repugnant, lurid thoughts that oozed at the surface of the followers mind. Akkarin's suspicions were confirmed; the man was a Sachakan slave, and he had more plans for, what Akkarin now knew to be a girl, than merely taking her latent magical potential and ending her life in the process. The line of Akkarin's mouth hardened.

_I have to act soon, _he thought, _or more than this girl's death will be on my conscience. _He looked around assessing the area. _Too busy; I will have to bide my time and follow. _Biting back the revulsion he felt at the contents of the Sachakan's mind, Akkarin stepped out from his shelter and into the icy rain and followed the unsuspecting pair down the winding street.

As Akkarin watched from where he followed, he thought the girl oblivious to her danger – he was wrong. Many times she had hurriedly walked the dark and winding back-alleys of the Slums, thinking of the misfortunes that be-fell many a girl such as herself; imagining the footsteps of invisible assailants. Now, as she drew further away from the busier streets, a sharp stab of instinct urged her to look back over her shoulder, and, this time, it was no product of her over-worked imagination. Her lungs and throat felt suddenly stifled and, aware that she was having to force herself not to shiver as fear coiled round her like a vice, she cautiously glanced back and saw, not one, but two black, formless shapes in the rain drenched gloom; both shadowed her closely, one after the other. Her mind went momentarily blank as she quickened her step. She realised that it was too late to turn back to the more populated areas; her only chance now was the warren of alleyways that she had known since she was a child. As her stride broke into a half run, she fervently hoped her followers were not as familiar as she was with the narrow passages that crisscrossed this area of the Slums.

Akkarin saw the pale smudge of a fine-featured face as the girl looked over her shoulder and he realised that, at last, she was aware of the threat. They were moving now into quieter areas. Shabbily constructed and flimsy looking buildings haphazardly lined the streets, like wearied and war-battered soldiers, looking unfit for purpose. The open mouths of dark alleyways sprung off, seemingly at every few paces, creating a confusing network of junctions. The High Lord had just determined that the weather had driven the last possible witnesses of any ensuing magical battle indoors, when a woman, head down against the rain and carrying a basket of food scraps, came hurrying from a side street and collided with Akkarin. He uttered a curse as his boots slipped underneath him and he slid sideways. When he straightened the street ahead was completely deserted. The girl and her would-be assailant had vanished.

Ignoring the shouts of the woman as she grovelled on the ground gathering the inedible food back into the basket, Akkarin broke into an agitated run; his head turning to either side as he sought with his eyes and mind for any sign of where the pair had gone. He was squinting into the rain despairingly when a shrill cry went up, breaking through the increasing howling of the wind, and the High Lord sped in its direction.

* * *

The girl felt her heart pounding in her chest; its beat increasing until it seemed to hammer in her ears. Her mouth went dry as she tried to swallow and concentrate on regulating her breathing, which was becoming as rapid as her heartbeat and was in danger of making her head spin. She shook her head angrily and drew back her hood. The freezing rain quickly saturated her short, dark curls, and ran like fingers of ice down her back, but it cleared her thoughts, as she had intended; she was determined not to play the hapless victim – not without a fight.

As she struggled to remember all the tricks she had learnt as a member of a street gang, the man at her back bore down on her - she sensed, rather than heard or saw him. The girl plunged on in the driving downpour, driven by panic and turning into a side alley in an attempt to evade capture. The running footsteps behind continued however, thudding closer, dinning in her ears. He was upon her, she knew it, and as she made one last desperate lunge to escape, he grabbed her cloak and dragged her into the deeper shadow of an unlit passageway.

The girl twisted, striking out with her arms, spitting a stream of oaths and curses that would have horrified her aunt. She thought of her friend's warning as she had left the stayhouse, and how she had laughed it off; now she felt sick at the thought of her aunt and uncles' faces when they were told of her untimely demise, which she now took as a certainty. But while she was still alive, she would fight. She hunched into a tight ball against a wall, unable to escape, her eyes, huge and dilated, flickered over the leering face as teeth flashed in the darkness in a malevolent grin.

"Who knew that kyralian women offered so much potential," the man muttered cryptically in an accented voice. He pinned both the girl's wrists in one powerful hand and, as she writhed against him, he let his weight hold her captive against the unyielding stone at her back. Suddenly, she lunged her head forwards and bit down hard on her attacker's shoulder, drawing blood. A shriek went up and a hand shot out and hit her savagely across the face. She frantically thought of every defensive move she knew of, and her mind kept coming back to the same thought – her knife, if only she could reach her knife.

A cruel voice, incandescent with rage, hissed something she was glad she could not understand into her ear, and a hand stroked her cheek with rough fingers before it slid down her neck and slipped under the opening of her shirt. Feeling naucous, she turned away. Then, without any warning, the hand whipped back and slammed once more into the side of her averted face. In throwing the full-forced blow, the man had momentarily leaned away from the girl, releasing her from the wall. As the fist struck, she saw her chance, despite the pain that exploded in her jaw, and she went down and rolled onto her back. Recoiling her legs, she mustered all of her strength and she kicked out with both feet. She heard a grunt and thud and she knew that the kick had found contact. Her instincts taking over at last, she reached into her boot and drew out a knife that she kept strapped to her calf. The girl jack-knifed her body and struck up at the man, the blade whistling upwards like a giant fang, connecting with clothing and flesh, biting through both. As the knife came free, the assailant gave an animal cry as a fresh shock of pain consumed him.

The girl did not wait to see what effect the assault had but, dropping the blade in horror, she scrambled to her feet and ran wildly back up the alley, her boots slipping on the slurry under her feet and the rain stinging her cut face mercilessly. She dare not look behind her, but too late, she remembered the second man who had followed the first, and, head down, she cannoned into the solid chest of the taller stranger. As she reeled backwards, dazed from the collision, strong, long-fingered hands gripped the tops of her arms. A disturbance that she could not place seemed to pervade the air around the man. As a rumble of thunder rolled threateningly across the city making the girl start, she regained her senses and stole a glance upwards. The stranger's face was lost in the shadow of his hood, though he seemed to be looking ahead in the direction of her first attacker. A black wing of saturated hair hung down, obscuring the man's features further. Then abruptly the man looked down and the girl stared straight into eyes as black and glittering as jet that were just discernible in the darkness. She saw murder in the gaze and it rooted her momentarily to the spot, then she struggled violently against the grip that held her, utterly in despair of her predicament. The tall stranger let go of his hold on her and, shocked by her sudden release, she stared silently up at him, her rapid breath creating a swirling mist in the air.

"Peace." A deep and resonant voice came from the shadow of the hood. "I mean you no harm. You are hurt; let me help you," the man murmured softly and he reached out and gently touched the purpling bruise that was spreading across the girl's cheek in an ugly weal. Her fine-boned, bloodied face looked thin and half-starved. A look, wary as a cornered wild animal, flashed in her darkly intelligent eyes and he knew that she had not been the recipient of kindness often in her young life. With one last wide-eyed and fearful glance, the girl recoiled and broke into a run, her slight figure quickly disappearing into the rain-veiled shadows of the Slums.

Akkarin stared after her, his brow furrowed in a frown of annoyed irritation and contemplation. The girl had been hurt; he could have healed her if she hadn't fled. But there was something else; something he'd sensed when he had briefly touched her cheek; something only a magician could feel. He filed it away in a corner of his mind to consider later; for now he had more pressing matters to deal with. Akkarin glanced back at the whimpering and huddled man on the floor some twenty paces away. He smiled a cold smile. This one was not strong or quick-witted, he could sense it now.

_The Ichani will have to do better than that, _Akkarin thought grimly. _This one has been undone by a slum girl with a knife- and by his own cruel desire. _His stomach lurched suddenly as a terrible emotion rose in him, flooding his whole being. _If the slave had not sought to enjoy the girl first, she would most likely be dead now and my conscience would be heavier._

A memory came unbidden to Akkarin's inner vision; a memory of another cruel Sachakan face with malicious intent, and of another girl's bruised and bloodied features, her golden brown eyes silently pleading as she was hauled away into a richly swathed tent. The High Lord's fists clenched convulsively and a rage and bitterness that he usually kept suppressed surged to the surface. The emotions made him want to hurt and kill, to avenge her torment and death, and, as the desire crystallized, an exhilarating sense of power swept through him and took control; the brooding anger desiring an outlet.

With slow and purposeful steps, Akkarin walked towards the man who sensed the dark power of the stranger who approached. A flash of lightning suddenly illuminated the macabre and rain drenched scene and the slave's blood turned to ice as he recognised the Guild magician's angular features from his master's memories. He began babbling - an incoherent stream of pleadings - as he crawled , clutching the wound at his side, like a mortally injured prey trying to evade a hunting predator. In vain the slave threw up a weak shield, but Akkarin dismissed it with a casual flick of his hand. The High Lord felt no personal malice towards this slave, and what he did now gave him no satisfaction. But the slave's intentions towards the girl had sickened him, and other memories had forcibly juxtaposed themselves with the current situation, moving him in a fury that he couldn't contain; a fury that demanded its due. Like an implacable tide gathering momentum and hungrily seeking the shore, the rage he felt as he stood over the cowering sachakan could only have one final and terrible outcome. Akkarin's two lackeys would have another body to get rid of tonight.

**A/N - I imagine this to be the attack that Sonea spoke of to her fellow novices when she was not certain if she had killed a man. I also consider it to be the point at which Jonna forbids Sonea from hanging around with Harrin's gang and when they moved into the Outer Circle and away from the Slums.**

**Anyway, thanks for reading and please, please review!**


	4. Chapter 3 Fine Senses

**Chapter three – Fine Senses**

"Akkarin!" At the sound of his name, the black-robed magician turned and brought an elegant hand up to shade his eyes from the low winter sun that nestled just above the stable buildings. He immediately recognised his friend from the blue robes, and stood waiting as Lorlen approached him from across the gardens, his pace hurried and betraying an uncustomary anxiousness. The dark-haired administrator forced a smile as he neared Akkarin.

"High Lord," Lorlen said sombrely, inclining his head. Akkarin waved his hand irritably.

"Please Lorlen; no-one is watching. There is no need to stand on ceremony." The High Lord turned and continued walking with long strides towards his residence. Lorlen fell into step besides him and glanced up at his friend.

"You were returning from the stables? How is your new mount? Is the king a good judge of equine temperament?" Lorlen enquired. An amused look overcame the administrator's face as he saw the High Lord's mouth tighten into an unhappy line.

"Not so much," Akkarin responded, and he sighed as he recalled the battle he had just fought with the fine, but unruly, steel grey horse. He turned sharply to Lorlen and his dark eyes caught hold of his friend's and he smiled ruefully.

"But keep that to yourself old friend. A gift from the king is not to be refused. I will have to find a way to...to tame her," he said, his smile becoming a grin. "Now," he continued briskly, "are you going to tell me what is worrying you, or do I have to guess?" Akkarin asked, looking intently at his friend.

"How...?" Lorlen began, but stopped and shook his head. Akkarin was his closest friend, and was known to have fine sense, but sometimes it seemed he knew Lorlen's thoughts before he gave voice to them. The administrator frowned and looked down.

"A magician – Fergun- was injured today, at the Purge. A stone was thrown by a vagrant and it broke through the shield and struck Fergun on the side of the head, rendering him unconscious." Loren paused and glanced at the High Lord, but Akkarin looked unperturbed as he gazed steadily ahead, his long fingers laced behind his back.

"Is he well?" he asked, betraying no emotion.

"Yes," Lorlen replied. "A mild concussion. He is resting."

"What a relief," Akkarin responded in a voice laboured with sarcasm, the corners of his mouth twitching and his dark eyes twinkling. Lorlen felt a ripple of laughter try and escape his lips, so he quickly pursed them and continued, his face abruptly darkening as he thought of the consequence of Fergun's injury.

"Unfortunately, a boy was wrongly identified as the perpetrator, and several warriors were... shall we say over-zealous, and all made simultaneous strikes; the poor boy was burnt to a cinder – not very good for public relations," Lorlen said, grimacing. "The real culprit escaped, and only one thing is for certain; whoever it was used magic." He took a breath, "It appears that we have ourselves a rogue in the midst of the Slums."

Lorlen looked expectantly at his friend, but there was no hint of alarm or surprise; the calm and poised mask Akkarin often wore remained in place.

"Not a rogue." The black-robed man stated quietly.

"Not a rogue...? How do you...? " Lorlen asked, nonplussed, then his face became a picture of annoyed astonishment as realisation dawned. "You mean you _knew _about this?!" he exclaimed. Akkarin turned to his friend and smiled.

"Of course," he said nonchalantly. "I felt the crude use of magic; it almost made me fall off that crazed and unruly excuse for a horse," the High Lord muttered, a scowl now replacing the smile. Lorlen looked at him incredulously.

"What shall we do about it?" The Administrator asked anxiously.

"Well, I can hardly send it back to the king. It was a birth-anniversary gift from my friend, not to mention my ruler." Akkarin answered obtusely.

"Not the damn horse! The rogue!" Lorlen almost shouted in exasperation. Akkarin turned an admonishing glare on him.

"Not a rogue," he said again softly, his face now serious.

"Damn it Akkarin! The Guild is in uproar and you are being deliberately vague and evasive!" Lorlen was becoming increasingly impatient with his friend's, not uncommon, verbal manoeuvrings. Akkarin suddenly threw his head back and gave a short laugh though he sobered quickly.

"I am sorry Lorlen, but you look so over-wrought. Your first real test as Administrator, as some will perceive it, though I know you will deal with it admirably. It was not because you were my friend that I put your name forward for the post," he added emphatically. Despite the reassuring words, Lorlen's mouth pulled downwards in an unhappy line. Akkarin sighed and stopped on the approach to the High Lord's residence which loomed pale and grey ahead. Akkarin looked his friend levelly in the eyes.

"Call a Meet for this afternoon. Question the eye-witnesses publically. Suggest that reparations are made to the deceased boy's family – though I fear nothing we do will assuage the anger of the Slum –dwellers. As for the real perpetrator?" Akkarin shrugged, " organise a search to begin tomorrow; I doubt very much he will be going anywhere far in the near future. There, you see? Nothing too taxing." The High Lord leaned towards Lorlen and grasped his arm. "I have every faith in your ability, and you should not question it either."

Lorlen's face relaxed a little, though a faint line still creased his brow. "Mmmmm, we shall see. One thing I am sure of is that we will have plenty of volunteers for the search; people will not like the idea of a rogue running loose in the Slums." Now it was Akkarin's turn to be exasperated.

"Not a rogue Lorlen! The power I felt was too crude, the strike too rudimentary. I would guess that this was the first time this boy had ever used magic. It may have been as much of a surprise to him as it was to poor Fergun." Akkarin said as he walked towards the door, but Lorlen remained standing on the path, a smug smile transforming his previously anxious features. It was not often that he knew something that his esteemed friend did not.

"Ah, Akkarin?" he called after the High Lord who glanced back over his shoulder, his brows raised in query. "Not a boy", Lorlen stated in quiet triumph, gratified as Akkarin's eyebrows rose even further, finally in a look of surprise.

"Not a boy...?" Akkarin echoed thoughtfully. "A girl then - interesting," he mused.

"Yes, " Lorlen responded. "You do remember the existence of the opposite sex don't you? Or are both of us married to our jobs?" Lorlen smiled wryly before continuing. "Whilst I'm sure this girl, whoever she is, would offer no temptation to you, there _are _plenty of women waiting to catch your eye, if only you would look in their direction occasionally." Lorlen closed the gap between the two men, the corners of his mouth pulling mischievously. He expected some jibe in return, but a shadow passed over Akkarin's face so quickly that, in the next moment, Lorlen was sure he must have imagined it.

"I do not have to look in their direction Lorlen," Akkarin said, smiling disarmingly. "I get at least two written proposals of marriage a month – most from the families of women I have never met, or, if I have, they were not interesting enough for me to recall." Lorlen opened his mouth to speak but his friend forestalled him with a gesture.

"You think that any of them are actually interested in living what would be, let's face it, the fairly lonely life of the wife of the High Lord? No; their families want power and influence and, I assure you, I am not the person to give it to them." Again Akkarin's expression darkened.

_Nor would they want their daughters under my roof, let alone in my bed, if they knew what I am and the danger that may bring to their loved ones. _Lorlen's voice broke Akkarin's thoughts.

"Everyone needs companionship Akkarin," the Administrator said, then he broke into a grin, "let alone other things I won't mention. Maybe someone here at the Guild will tempt you one day."

"Maybe," the High Lord offered in quiescence, but as he spoke a face flashed into his mind, unbidden. An olive-skinned face that was marred by a scar running down one smooth cheek. Long, straight, black hair fell heavily around the exotic features, and dark graceful brows framed the deep liquid amber eyes; eyes that were full of a sorrow and pain beyond their years, and eyes that bore another emotion that Akkarin had burned into his memory: love.

The image of the woman was clear and vivid still, but was usually stored in a place in Akkarin's mind that he only accessed when he was alone. That it came unlooked for and suddenly to the forefront of his thoughts, made him catch his breath and step backwards slightly. Quickly, he re-gained his composure and smiled at Lorlen, hoping that his friend had not noticed the lapse in his usual cool demeanor.

"You are hardly one to lecture me Lorlen," he said. "You would sleep on that desk of yours if it were permitted. Now, let Osen know about the plans for the Meet, and then come join me in a glass of Anuren Dark that I have just taken ownership of." Akkarin smiled a grim smile. "I am sure that we will both feel the benefit of it before long; I will be summoned by the king before the day is done, and you will have to face an interrogation from Fergun's outraged supporters." The two men strode towards the High Lord's residence then Akkarin paused.

"Oh, and before I forget, you should have Lord Solend investigate a phenomenon called a 'natural' that will be referenced in the Guild histories." The door opened at the High Lord's lightest touch.

"A 'natural'...?" Lorlen queried as they passed through the door and it closed shut behind them.

* * *

Later that night, after a long day of endless questions, Akkarin sat at the desk in his study trying to read a correspondence from a well placed 'friend' at the Elyne court. He stared fixedly at the parchment as the words on the page danced before his eyes and he found himself reading the same sentence over and over. He sighed and leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and finger, then he absently smoothed the unruly strands of long hair that had escaped their bonds. His dark eyes narrowed as he finally accepted that his efforts to the banish the memory that had tugged at the corner of his mind most of the day were in vain. Passing his hands over his face, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to succumb to the irresistible pressure, and let the strange bitter-sweetness of his recollections envelop him.

Akkarin had learnt to discipline himself over the years; allowing himself to freely explore his time as Dakova's slave was not something he indulged in often. Such pondering on his past allowed him to recall the sweetness of his only love, but also led him to drink the inevitable sour cup of truth that came with those memories.

_I could not save her from the cruelties of her life, or her death. I failed her, and now I pay the price. _Akkarin thought bitterly as he foresaw the nightmares that would surely come tonight. A knock at the door interrupted his reverie and his eyes snapped open.

"Come in," he said as he rose smoothly from the chair and turned to stare out of the window, allowing him time to collect himself. Takan entered the study carrying a tray bearing a flask of dark wine and a single glass.

"It's late Master, " the servant said quietly glancing at the magician. "I thought you might need a drink to help you to bed." Takan did not wait for a response, but laid the tray on the desk and filled the glass with strong, sweet wine. Akkarin remained silently facing the darkness of the night through the window, rubbing his temples with his fingertips. The sachakan hesitated, then picked up the glass and proffered it to Akkarin's back.

"Master?" Takan murmured softly but with a tone of insistence. The High Lord finally turned to face his servant, reaching forwards with downcast eyes and taking the glass.

"Thankyou," Akkarin said, and managed a weak smile that was not reflected in his glittering gaze. Takan tilted his head and regarded the High Lord speculatively.

"I have known you too long to not know when you are brooding – even more than usual," the servant added as he looked at his master expectantly and was gratified to see a ghost of a smile touch his black eyes.

"Yes, you know me well," Akkarin said inclining his head in acquiescence.

"Is it this girl? – the one in the Slums who injured a magician today?" Akkarin was taking a mouthful of wine and did not answer. "Do you think the Ichani has something to do with it?" the servant continued. "She may be bait to draw magicians into the City in greater numbers than would usually be found there; isolating them from the rest of the Guild and making them vulnerable. The Ichani will not attack the Guild yet, but if the Guild comes to them – who knows?" Takan became animated now, gesturing in agitation and betraying emotions that had been pent up all day . "Or maybe she is an infiltrating spy, and the plan is that she will be taken in as a novice, to gather information or attack from within."

Akkarin studied his servant thoughtfully, his eyes bright. "You are clever Takan. One of the Ichani may come up with, and risk such a plan, but I do not think one of their slaves would. Let us hope that the Ichani themselves have not ventured into Kyralia yet." Akkarin sank down into his chair and gestured for Takan to take the seat opposite.

"Will you join me?" The High Lord asked indicating the flask of wine.

"I thought you would never ask," the sachakan said and flashed a grin at his master as he reached into the folds of his tunic and pulled out another glass. Akkarin laughed softly as the servant filled the second glass, then the smile faded.

"To answer your question Takan; no, I do not think that the incident today had anything to do with the Ichani. I felt the sudden flare of magic from the city – it was rudimentary and untrained," he pursed his lips then exhaled. "No; I am guessing that a 'natural' has surfaced in a most surprising quarter."

Akkarin raised his eyebrows before continuing. " Considering how rare they are, it is unusual that one has appeared in a section of the population that does not traditionally produce the strongest magical potential – though _ I_ am not as naïve as some who thought that it was literally impossible for a slum- dweller to have latent power. The ignorance of some Guild members worries me," he sighed again. "If they struggle to accept that a slum girl could possibly be a magician, how do I ever convince them that black magic is not inherently evil when the time comes for me to reveal myself? Their prejudices are deeply ingrained from years of complacency and lassitude. "

"Besides," he continued, smiling crookedly, "she is most definitely no sachakan. I have seen a projected image of her; her skin is so pale and her eyes are so dark that she could be nothing other than Kyralian." Akkarin cocked an eyebrow at his servant, "she also looks like a boy of no more than fifteen years, though for her magic to have emerged, she must be older." The magician drew in a deep breath. "No, the only concern I have about our little slum magician is that the king will give me no peace until she is found."

Akkarin then recalled his meeting with Merin earlier that evening. The shorter, and slightly broader, figure of the king had paced the council chamber of the palace as he had questioned the High Lord about how it was possible for a magician to suddenly appear in the Slums. Being within two years in age of one another, and with the Delvan family historically having influence within the royal household, the two men had grown up together and had remained friends into adulthood. Merin had become king shortly after Akkarin was appointed High Lord, and it was a happy coincidence that pleased the king greatly. Akkarin had managed to quell his friend's unwarranted fears about a Slum uprising, assuring him that 'naturals' were so rare that they had all but been forgotten, and that the Slum dwellers were not about to be transformed into a rogue army.

"What _does _trouble you then master?" Takan's enquiry brought Akkarin back to the present and the black eyes that met the servant's over the rim of the glass suddenly narrowed in pain.

"Ah," Takan said softly in realisation. He considered the magician, taking in the haunted glaze that had slipped over Akkarin's features. "She would not want you to still feel such sorrow," the sachakan said tentatively. "She knew there was nothing you could have done – they all did," he added emphatically.

Akkarin's jaw clenched and his eyes brimmed with tears. "I was – am – a Guild magician; I know you all must have looked to me with hope when Dakova took me." As the High Lord reached forwards to re-fill his glass, Takan sighed and regarded his friend. Unlike most servants, Takan had a room at his master's residence, and he knew that, even with the distance between their rooms, the tortured moans of Akkarin's nightmares would echo throughout the building and reach his ears tonight. From past experience, the servant also knew that a dark brooding mood would prevail over the High Lord for the next few days.

Akkarin stood suddenly and Takan made to follow suit, but the magician gestured for him to remain seated.

"Do you remember your family Takan? I mean really remember them; their faces, the exact colour of their eyes, the curve of their lips?" Akkarin turned to the window once more, leaning an arm on the frame and staring out into the inky blackness.

"The details blur master, but I remember them clearly in here," the sachakan clutched at the shirt at his breast, "in my heart."

Akkarin leaned his forehead on his arm. "I miss her Takan. Dakova stripped back my polite veneer until I was utterly bared; completely...me. And yet she loved me. I miss the honesty we had between us." He grimaced. " It couldn't be more different from the life in Imardin that I had been used to." The magician's head drooped a little. "Despite the cruelty of the circumstances, I cherish the simplicity of what we shared." Akkarin brushed at his face with the back of a hand. He took a deep breath.

"But I grow increasingly afraid that I will forget her face. To remember I must think of her often, but to think of her makes me afraid," the black-robed man murmured.

"Afraid of what ?" Takan asked quietly, frowning. Akkarin glanced over his shoulder, and though a faint track of a tear ran down his cheek, his eyes now bore a familiar coldness that made the servant shiver inwardly.

"I am afraid of the nightmares that always follow. I am afraid of the sorrow and guilt such memories bring," then his lips abruptly curled into a humourless smile. "I am afraid to go to sleep tonight," he said in a bleak voice.

Takan tilted his head and smiled awkwardly. "Then don't sleep tonight. I will sit here with you and talk- or listen- as you please; like we used to when Dakova slept. We will not be master and servant tonight, but rather friends," and the sachakan nodded encouragingly.

A look of gratitude washed over Akkarin's face and he wearily slumped back down in his chair and drew a hand over his face. His expression changed hastily, however, and he glanced keenly at Takan. A dark arch of an eyebrow rose speculatively and a genuine smile almost touched his lips.

"Does that mean you will call me by my name for the duration of the evening?" the magician asked hopefully. Takan's gaze slid from Akkarin's and his lips pursed as he considered.

"No - " the servant answered unequivocally, though he suppressed a grin, " – master," he added.

**A/N: As always, thanks for reading and thanks for the support and reviews for this fic ( especially my guest reviewers who I can't personally thank). If interest still continues, I'll carry on with this and Sonea should appear at the Guild the chapter after next, and things may get more interesting!**


	5. Chapter 4 The Elusiveness of Sleep

**Chapter 4 – The Elusiveness of Girls and sleep**

Despite the company of the Higher Magicians around the darkly polished wooden table, Lord Garrel could not help an exasperated sigh escape his lips.

"It's bad enough having to deal with the everyday complaints of the Houses," he said exasperated, slapping one of the papers that were strewn on the table's surface:

"_Can the Guild intervene here ? What does the Guild intend to do about this, or that...?" _The Warrior looked around the table sternly.

"And now we are proposing to ask them to – what?! – Stand back and applaud us for taking in a beggar girl?" Garrel asked his colleagues incredulously. Lorlen calmly folded a deposition he had been reading and handed it to Osen. He glanced at the High Lord who sat back impassively in his chair then he fixed Garrel with a hard stare.

"We are all well aware of the troubles in the provinces Lord Garrel, but they have no bearing on the decision to teach this girl- if we ever find her that is," the Administrator said softly but emphatically. Garrel snorted his disdain and picked up one of the papers, waving it the air.

"Merchant wagons ambushed on the North Road, resulting in the loss of eight lives in the past Four-week alone! Horses stolen from Davin's stables – in the Inner Circle mark you! And who do you think is responsible for these crimes? I'll tell you- the Dwells! And I, for one, do not want one of them living in the Guild!" Garrel's face reddened with rising anger and he looked at the others present seeking agreement. Lord Sarrin shifted uneasily in his seat then cleared his throat.

"It does seem unreasonable to ask Guild members, let alone the Houses, to accept one of _them _amongst us," he spoke slowly and paused considering as he steepled his fingers. "Like ...like inviting the thief in through the front door, you might say," and he sneered. "Or inviting the whore to dine with the wife." Several magicians smiled or laughed softly at Sarrin's jibe, but Lady Vinara regarded her colleagues murderously.

"You make many derisory assumptions about this girl and yet, so far, she has eluded your capture," the Healer snapped. " She is obviously blessed with enough wit and intelligence to outmaneuver _you_!" Vinara glanced around and was gratified by the mollified looks on some of the faces present at the table. Garrel scowled however, and glanced sideways at the still silent figure of the High Lord that presided at the head of the table. Akkarin's sharp eyes looked thoughtful, but distant, and Garrel's scowl deepened as he mused to himself.

_...more important matters on his mind, no doubt, than Guild safety. He may be more interested when the filthy stench of the slum girl is tainting the air under our noses, and half the foolhardy male novices are diseased by her whoring..._

Akkarin remained perfectly still in his relaxed pose, but his gaze shifted and raked the stocky Warrior with one of his most contemptuous glances.

"Thank you, Lord Garrel, for reminding me of my duty. I can assure you that the Guild's safety is _always_ at the forefront of my mind-" Akkarin said acidly, meeting the hostile glare of Garrel, and the black robed man smiled sardonically, "- which is more than can be said for you. You must tell me, some time, about your exploits as a novice; I trust they were not the denigrated pleasures you seem to think our current male students would seek out, given half a chance." There was an icy edge to Akkarin's smooth, deep voice and Garrel blinked at him, slack-mouthed and wondering if he had inadvertently spoken his thoughts aloud. The Warrior swallowed hard and looked round the table at the perplexed faces who glanced between the High Lord and Garrel in bemusement. The red-robed man laughed nervously.

"Ah, yes, of course High Lord - though, I can assure you, that my novice days were uneventful."

Akkarin held Garrel's stare with hard, black eyes. On his return from Sachaka, it had become more and more apparent to other magicians that his magical strength and prowess had grown; a fact finally confirmed when he was tested for the position of High Lord by Balkan. Akkarin had quickly come to realise that his abilities provoked one of two reactions amongst his peers. Some admired his talents and gave credit where it was due; others envied him and resented the fact that so young a man had reached the ultimate rank with such consummate ease. Lord Garrel fell firmly into the latter category. The Warrior now tried, and failed, to hold the High Lord's implacable gaze – his eyes flickered and he looked down and studied his hands. Akkarin inclined his head in quiescence and leaned forwards suddenly, laying his hands on the table.

"Well my Lords - and Lady," he glanced at a still seething Vinara, "we could go round in circles here all day. I may remind you that we are never going to totally please the Houses; they are ever critical." He raised an eyebrow, "but we must remember, as it was said at the initial Meet, that we may limit the damage done by the killing of the boy at the Purge if we take this girl in. But first we must find her." He rose then abruptly, looming darkly over the room in his black robes. There was a scraping of chairs as the magicians present stood hastily to bow to the High Lord. Akkarin glanced at Garrel who almost shrank before him.

"When I am next at the Palace, I will raise the concerns of House Paren over the recent ambushes with the City Guard, since it is they, and _not_ the Guild who are the appropriate body to deal with such complaints." Akkarin scanned the room and suppressed a smile. "As sure as I am that many of the nobility would like us to simply evaporate the Slum-dwellers into non-existence, it is not something I intend to authorise anytime soon." The room returned the High Lord's smile nervously, uncertain as to how lightly he meant his words to be taken. As he passed through the doorway he suddenly stopped and glanced over his shoulder.

"Oh, and there will be no more talk of slum whores, thieves or any other such vociferously colourful descriptions. The Guild will follow the example of the Higher Magicians and, if this girl _is_ to join us, the whole of Imardin will scrutinise our treatment of her." Akkarin's eyes became hard and his tone sharp – "which will be beyond reproach," he smiled disarmingly," at least until the gossips have something else to occupy them." With that he glided from the room in a billow of black silk, leaving the occupants wide-eyed and as in awe of him as ever.

* * *

Lorlen fell into step next to Akkarin. He glanced sideways at his friend, tight-lipped.

"Must you do that?" The Administrator asked with a tone of thinly veiled exasperation that only he dare take with his friend. Akkarin's mouth twitched but he stared fixedly ahead, his long strides continuing purposefully.

"Do what Lorlen?" he asked innocently.

"You know what Akkarin," Lorlen replied acerbically. "Sit there like some silent grim reaper and then intimidate them with a few short sentences. There is only Vinara who does not think of you as half human – and she scares them almost as much as you!"

Akkarin threw back his head and let out a sharp bark of laughter before regarding his friend. "Truly Lorlen, your observations about our little family are insightful. If only they knew they were so transparent."

"What was that with Lord Garrel? " Lorlen frowned and turned expectantly to the High Lord. Akkarin waved his hand dismissively.

"Oh, nothing. Garrel and House Paren just need to be put in their place every so often. Their vilification of a girl they have never met annoys me, that's all." Akkarin sighed and ran his fingers across his brow. "It is _I_ who have cause for complaint with the girl," he said with quiet vehemence. Lorlen's frown deepened and he examined his friend with fresh eyes, noticing the pallid complexion and dark shadows under the eyes.

"She is still trying her magic more frequently then?" Lorlen asked anxiously.

"Yes, several times every night! " The High Lord replied. "Who would have thought that I would be kept from sleep by a Slum girl!" Akkarin smiled wryly. "We had better find her soon otherwise her Thief friends are in for a nasty shock. Her magic, whilst still crude, grows stronger by the day," Akkarin said, throwing his friend a meaningful glance and rubbing his temples. "My mind throbs with it on occasions."

Lorlen looked down thoughtfully as they continued to walk. "You heard about the fire last night?" Akkarin nodded and Lorlen continued. "I'll warrant she was the source of it. Who knows what destruction she would cause if she lost all control." He sighed anxiously. "Rothen and Dannyl have been tightening the net however."

"Yes, I have been impressed, particularly with Dannyl's innovativeness and confidence," Akkarin murmured. "I must admit that I did not have him down as a magician of much consequence, but now I feel his talents are wasted as Rothen's apprentice." Something unfathomable flickered briefly in the High Lord's eyes. "If they find the girl before the worst happens, I suggest you consider Lord Dannyl for other, more estimable, duties; a position in Elyne might suit him well, maybe."

"Mmm," Lorlen mulled over his friends words. "I hope it will not be long before they _do_ find her."

Akkarin grimaced. "So do I, Lorlen. So do I..."

* * *

Later that day, Akkarin was in his bedroom as the last of the cool evening light faded. The laughter of magicians in the gardens below faintly drifted upwards, an almost alien sound to the melancholy magician's ears, and it impinged on his consciousness. He sat on the edge of his bed and slumped forwards, his head in his hands as he sent a flow of healing energy to ease the headache which seemed to be a constant these days. He sighed wearily as he sat back, wondering what would disturb his sleep tonight: his nightmare, or the street girl's attempts at magic – or, rather, the street girl's outbursts of uncontrolled power that her mind released unconsciously.

The High Lord frowned. He had not been as surprised as his colleagues with the discovery of such magical potential in the Slums. For much of his youth he, like them, had not explored much of Imardin outside the Inner Circle, the Palace and the Guild. In the last five years, however, for reasons he could not divulge, he had been in close contact with many of the City's poorer people and had, on occasions, been aware of a faint latent power that radiated from some Dwells unknowingly . Despite its theoretical acceptance of any person who showed aptitude and promise, in practise the Guild had not accepted anyone from outside the nobility of the Allied Lands for hundreds of years.

Akkarin's eyes suddenly narrowed as he recalled a threadbare clothed girl with a painfully thin face and dark, fearful eyes that he had met for a moment in the Slums some two years ago. He knew that she could not comprehend that a stranger who offered her help, as he had done, could mean the kindness sincerely. From his experiences in the Slums whilst hunting down the Ichani slaves, Akkarin had begun slowly to understand why the Dwells nurtured such feelings of suspicion and relied mainly on their own acts of self-preservation. They were treated with contempt by the rest of the city, who assumed that here was no innate goodness or value in a person born to the Slums. An uncomfortable worm of conscience had coiled around Akkarin's gut as he realised that such ridicule would never change when even the revered Guild magicians helped in the Purge every year. By their actions in assisting the City Guard drive out the vagrants into a certain life of hunger and squalor, the Guild were silently condoning the pitiful treatment of Imardin's poorest citizens.

_We lead by example, _Akkarin mused to himself. _And we do not set a good example in this._ The High Lord had, more than once, tentatively broached the subject of the Purge with King Merin, but to no avail. Merin had little incentive to instil such a change as the ending of the yearly Purge and, like most of the Houses, he lived in ignorance of the reality of the true plight of the Dwells.

Akkarin smiled in self-deprecation. _I too lived in blissful ignorance of many things once, _he thought. _If only that could be so again. _A memory of the street girl flashed into his mind again. _So much potential. She could have died that night,_ he thought as he recalled how his fingers had easily encircled the tops of her arms and of her diminutive, malnourished frame.

_Maybe she is already dead – and what does it matter anyway?_ He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and finger and then glanced at the now familiar wine flask that stood on the table next to his bed. Akkarin noticed that the glass next to the flask held a small amount of clear liquid.

_Nemin,_ he thought, without even having to smell the drug's acrid odour. He smiled humourlessly. _Takan must have noticed that the nightly disturbances are taking their toll._ Akkarin stared at the wine and glass dispassionately for a moment, his face grim. If he took the sedative, the girl and her outbursts of magic may not disturb his sleep, but if his sleep was unbroken it would not necessarily be peaceful. As he contemplated, the faint throb at his temples began again and he finally resolved that his body needed at least one nights full rest. He poured some wine into the glass and put it to his lips quickly, draining the contents in slow deep gulps. He grimaced; the bitter taste of the nemin could not be disguised by even the finest wine.

Curse the girl and her magic, and, if his nightmare came to haunt him tonight, twice curse her. He pushed away the familiar twinge of conscience. What use was his sympathy anyway? The High Lord may be a position of power amongst magicians, but in the social and political world of Kyralia , it was the king who held sway - and Merin would not _be_ swayed, though Akkarin had tried. So what use was magic to this girl and her kind? It was of no use, Akkarin had concluded. Even if the girl became a novice , she would never truly be one of them; would never fit in.

_She has been born and raised into circumstances the Guild will never appreciate and understand. But then... I have experienced circumstances that the Guild will never appreciate or understand. I am not the same as them either, and I am their High Lord._ Akkarin snorted softly to himself at the absurdity of the notion that he and this Slum girl may become kindred spirits if she joined the Guild – unique in their past sufferings and experiences in an environment of ignorant comfort.

Akkarin yawned suddenly and he lay back on his bed and tried not to think about the dark hours ahead as his eyes closed. Maybe the nightmare would not come , and if it did, all he could do was face the night with whatever courage he could muster.

* * *

Each time it began in the same way. Akkarin opened his eyes to the darkness and silence of his room, and for a moment he thought himself awake, until a tell-tale edge of unreality told his mind that he was asleep and dreaming. Then there was a sound outside the room – a muffled whimpering that impinged on his consciousness. In the dream, Akkarin slid from his bed and padded quietly across to the window. A new sensation rose within him; some suppressed feeling that dragged at the deepest level of his mind and incessantly and voicelessly called out to him, as insidiously as the rustle of leaves in the wind that heralded a storm.

_Remember me...You failed me..._

No, Akkarin told his dreaming mind, where _were_ no words. Despite the rising dread, he could not wake himself. Instead he pulled back the window shutters and looked down onto the gardens – except that they were no longer pleasant and green, but sandy and barren. The cool light of the full moon threw sharp contrasts of silver and shadow across the empty landscape as Akkarin helplessly watched, unable to wrench his gaze away, though he knew what horrors were to come. Through a faint haze that clouded his vision something moved, crawling like an injured animal. Then the fog lifted and clearly he saw her as she stumbled to her feet and turned to look up at him at the window. Her dark skin was marred with the deeper shade of bruises seen through the tatters of her clothes. By contrast her face was unmarked, save for a thin faint scar that ran down one cheek; but it was her eyes that caused Akkarin a pain that struck him to his core. Almond shaped and a deep amber in colour, they spoke to him in a way a thousand words could not. Full of sorrow and pleading and love, they tortured his dreams and, like a moth to a flame, he was transfixed by them.

The woman's mouth formed words but he could not hear them from his place at the window. Then she turned excruciatingly slowly and moved towards a man that beckoned a few paces away. As she walked to the cruel-faced Sachakan, Akkarin desperately hammered his fists on the glass, shouting for her to turn back, to run into the refuge of the Residence; screaming that he would keep her safe, his voice muted behind the window. But in each dream she did not look back and Akkarin's anguished cries were in vain as his clenched hands beat ever harder on the window until it finally smashed into many pieces. The explosion sent shards of glass shooting out in all directions. As his voice was finally released from the barrier of the window and Akkarin filled his lungs to cry out again, a long sliver of falling glass spun through the air and, ricocheting, it plunged into the magician's heart, and he watched in wide-eyed horror as, looking up and holding Akkarin's eyes with a cold, malevolent sneer, Dakova slashed across the woman's throat with a jewelled knife and she fell to the ground, her life-blood seeping into the sand and staining it deep crimson.

As always, it was at this point that Akkarin's sleeping mind released its hold and he awoke, sweat beading his brow and his breathing the rapid pace of fear. And always, where the finger of glass had pierced his dream-self, a corresponding physical pain stabbed at his chest and lingered long after the nightmare had faded. Whilst it did not haunt him every night, the nightmare stalked him so that he lived in fear of it leaping out from the shadowed corners of his mind and ambushing him while he lay helpless in the embrace of sleep.

Now the High Lord lay staring morosely up at the ceiling above his bed as his racing heart calmed, and the pale, watery light of dawn banished the ominous black shapes of night, revealing in them the harmless details of the carved wood of furniture, or the crumpled fabric of discarded robes.

_If only daylight could turn the shadows of nightmares into harmless daydreams, _Akkarin thought as he placed a long-fingered hand on his chest in a fruitless attempt to banish the ache he felt there. _At least I have slept a full night, thanks to the nemin. _Akkarin smiled grimly to himself as realised that he had no headache for the first time in days. _Thank goodness for small mercies._

As he sat up against his pillows, a sudden crescendo of energy rushed through his mind and he winced and, as it subsided, he kneaded his temples with his fingertips, his mouth pursing in a hard line. The flash of magic he had felt was coming from somewhere in the North Quarter and seemed to be more intense and clear that even just the day before. The magician swung his legs out of bed, urgency now goading him into action. As unofficial coordinators of the search, he needed to see Rothen and Dannyl- and quickly. The girl held a magical strength that would be the envy of many, but if she was not found soon, there may well not be much of the North Quarter left. With the Sachakan murderers praying on the city ever more frequently, the High Lord could do without this distraction.

"Damn girl!" Akkarin muttered darkly as he rose to dress quickly, banishing the nightmare to the furthest reaches of his mind. "If we _do_ get to her before she kills herself, I will be content never to set eyes on her – the trouble she has caused." And he strode from the room in a flurry of black silk, and in an even blacker mood.

**A/: Thanks for reading; please review! Sonea turns up next chapter, for those who are interested, but Akkarin isn't too pleased to see her! Thanks to all reviewers, alerters and favouriters (not a word, but you know what I mean!)**


	6. Chapter 5 Found

**Chapter 5 – Found**

In relief and, if he was honest, more than a little triumph, Rothen had sent word to Administrator Lorlen. The tip-off that Dannyl had received from the Thief had proved true and the slum girl who had led them in an elaborate game of hide-and-seek these last weeks had finally been found and Rothen was bringing her to the Guild at last. The polite etiquette that magicians adhered to whilst others engaged in mind communication had been shamelessly abandoned by some, and the University was buzzing with the news of its imminent new arrival. Despite the freezing weather and gentle fall of snow, many Guild members were gathering in front of the University's main entrance, milling around in cocoons of magical heat like industrious insects suddenly animated into action.

That her arrival should create such an interest may have amused, and also frightened the girl a little – if she were not in a near comatose state from her magical exhaustion. The magicians stood wide-eyed and whispering feverishly behind hands as they glanced in anticipation towards the gates of the Guild. Rumour had it that she had already knifed a magician to add to the injury she had previously inflicted on Lord Fergun. As much as the taking in of such an obviously feral creature appalled some, they could not help but succumb to curiosity and had come to try and catch a glimpse of the her. Rothen would not have been at all pleased if he knew the ever growing crowd that he and his burden were walking towards with every step he took.

Akkarin's eyes narrowed as he stood at a window of his residence. An elegant hand rested on the window frame as he gazed towards the University. Even at this distance, he could make out the increasing number of magicians that were waiting inside the Guild gates and, given Lorlen's communication with him a short time ago, the High Lord could all too easily guess what, or who, they had congregated to see – the girl, or Sonea, as they now knew her to be called. Akkarin's brow furrowed and his mouth pulled in a disapproving line. Whatever irritation he personally felt with the girl for trying so pointlessly to evade them, he knew that his annoyance should also be directed inwardly at the Guild. They had contributed to this chain of events as surely as she. A boy killed before her eyes whilst knowing the strikes had been meant for herself, and every year she and her co-habitants driven from their homes to live a pitiful existence in the Slums.

"And people wondered why she ran!" Akkarin muttered to himself and, as a group of brown robed novices attached themselves to throng at the foot of the University steps, the High Lord's frown turned to a scowl and he turned purposefully from the window.

* * *

"So this is it then? This is the day that our dignity and respectability are diluted," Lord Sarrin said disdainfully to his companions as he stood, arms crossed, amid the gathering in front of the University. Lord Garrel glowered besides him.

"Bind her powers and send her on her way I say – but then, my voice has fallen on deaf ears," the Warrior mumbled, disgruntled. "Trouble will come of this, mark my words," Garrel continued, "things will not be the same again." Lord Sarrin and his companions nodded sombrely in agreement but, as Garrel made to vent to his obliging audience again, his face blanched a little and he cleared his throat hastily as a green robed woman walked briskly towards them.

"Ah, Lady Vinara," Lord Sarrin greeted her. "I see that you could not resist the temptation to see Rothen's prize for yourself." He smiled smugly. "I thought that you considered her as nothing much different to the rest of us," his voice was condescending as he glanced knowingly at Garrel. Vinara eyed both men sternly.

"This is not a day at the races Sarrin!" she snapped acidly. "Though you could be excused for mistaking it as such," she added as she looked around in dismay at the crowd. She turned her cold gaze back to the men.

"For your information, _I_ have been requested to meet Lord Rothen here by the High Lord, for the sole purpose of checking the girl's health. I do_ not_ view her as some spectacle, or prize, as you so eloquently put it!"

"Of course not!" Sarrin responded, his voice dripping with sarcasm. At that moment, a hush fell on the magicians and Garrel's face paled again as he stared wide-eyed over Vinara's shoulder. The Healer turned quizzically to see what had captured the crowd's attention so thoroughly. As she did, she glanced the tall, dark figure of the High Lord approaching down the path from his residence.

"Surely Akkarin has not come to gawp," she muttered under her breath. "He will scare the girl to death." Akkarin's face was stern and his stride long as he neared the University steps. The crowd stood in almost comical frozen animation at his approach.

"There is nothing to see here!" Akkarin's deep voice, harsh with its terse tone, carried to all the magicians present as he came to stand on the edge of the gathering. "I am sure you all have better things to be doing and I suggest that you get back to them." Though many looked nervously at each other, no-one moved.

"Now!" Akkarin snapped coldly, and his eyes glittered as hard as jet. There was a flurry of hasty retreat as billowing robes of colour headed up the steps and into the University until only Garrel, Sarrin, Vinara and Lorlen remained. The High Lord walked over to the two warriors and the healer as Lorlen ushered a couple of stragglers into the building above. The three magicians inclined their heads as he approached.

"Lord Garrel, Sarrin, Lady Vinara," the Guild leader acknowledged them each in turn, glancing at them briefly with an intense gaze. "With respect gentlemen, I do not see the need for you to be here in the welcoming party – as much as I appreciate your interest," Akkarin added with a hint of sarcasm. "I am sure, in time, you will see the girl, and probably find yourselves thoroughly disappointed," his mouth pulled in a crooked smile. "You may go." Garrel and Sarrin inclined their heads respectfully, any protest they had dying on their lips as they turned and walked back towards the Guild, knowing not to question the High Lord's dismissal. Akkarin gave a soft sigh as he studied their retreating backs before turning a warmer smile to Vinara as Lorlen came to join them.

"Thank you Vinara, for coming so promptly. Rothen has requested that the girl – Sonea- be allowed to stay in his rooms for the moment," Akkarin's eyes flickered to his friend, " Lorlen has agreed and I see no objection, but I would appreciate your looking over her – the Slums are not known to be the healthiest environment to grow up in, and from Rothen's projected image, she seems small for her estimated age."

As Akkarin spoke, a small group of people entered under the Guild gates. The older figure of Rothen was at the front carrying what, at first glance, appeared to be a bundle of rags. Only a pale, thin arm that sagged lifelessly to one side identified the burden he held as a person. At Rothen's shoulder was the tall figure of Dannyl who limped heavily, wincing with every halting step.

"Ah yes," Akkarin said, still addressing Vinara but staring with barely perceptible anxiety to the newcomers. "I think Lord Dannyl may need your attention also. The girl has done nothing to endear herself to her critics by doing exactly what they feared she would do." A look of annoyance fleetingly crossed his face before he turned to Lorlen.

"I will leave her in your capable hands Lorlen. Rothen is sensible. I am sure he will consider the interests of all in his suggestions with how to proceed." The High Lord bowed his head to his colleagues and made to walk away but Vinara forestalled him.

"You do not want to see the girl now that you are here?" Vinara asked in surprise.

"No," Akkarin replied unequivocally. "Lorlen will keep me informed," he said turning to his friend. "I am just glad that she is found and that I can get a good night's sleep," and he smiled wryly. He glanced uneasily at Rothen, now only twenty or so paces away, and he caught sight of a pale smudge of a face resting against the Alchemist's chest. Akkarin felt the sense of unease crystallize within him. He frowned before nodding to Lorlen and Vinara. "I have matters to attend to; if you will excuse me" and he hurried with long strides back in the direction of his residence.

Lorlen shrugged indifferently, used to his friend's idiosyncrasies, but Vinara turned a perplexed frown towards Rothen and the approaching magicians and saw that her expression was mirrored in the Alchemist's features.

"I am carrying a girl, not a deadly disease," Rothen commented, looking unamused at Akkarin's departing figure as he came to stand next to Vinara. The Healer shrugged her bemusement before gently pulling back the hood of the cloak that had been wrapped around the girl, and then peered at her sleeping face before lightly laying a hand on her forehead.

"By the Eye, Rothen!" The Healer exclaimed. "She is like a doll!" Vinara took in the pale, almost transparent, skin that clung to the bones of the girl's face and she instinctively reached and clasped the hand of the inert arm that lolled awkwardly to one side. The hand was dirty, the nails chipped, but all the same, it was well-shaped and delicately boned though much smaller than a grown woman's should be. Vinara looked incredulously at the magicians who were in the escort, a slight smile tugging at her lips.

"And this is the creature that has led us all a merry dance these past weeks!?"

Dannyl's face flushed slightly. "She did have the help of the Thieves!" He said indignantly, before his features twisted in pain. "Not that she needed their help much in the art of self-defence," he murmured to himself. Lady Vinara gave a short laugh, and then looked down at the girl again and her face softened with concern. She removed her hand and smoothed the short, soft curls momentarily, before looking perfunctorily up at Rothen.

"Well, she is undernourished – that is for sure – and probably has been all her life, hence her small frame. She will not grow anymore now, and there is nothing we can do about that, but," Vinara took a breath, "she is in good health otherwise; nothing that a bath and as many good meals as we can get her to eat won't fix."

"How old is she?" Dannyl asked curiously. "She looks like a twelve year old boy to me," he grimaced, "though she handles a knife as well as any City Guard."

"Oh Dannyl! I'm so sorry! Let me look at you." And Vinara hurried over to the young Alchemist. As she laid her palm over the wound on his leg she answered his enquiry. "I'd say she was about seventeen, give or take a few months. Now, time to get her," she glanced sternly at Dannyl, "and you, up to Rothen's rooms." And she ushered them with waving arms to the snow-covered path that led around the University and past the gardens and on to the Magicians' Quarters.

* * *

The door of his residence snapped shut behind Akkarin and he stood perfectly still for a moment before shaking his head so that an unruly black strand of hair fell in his face. He brushed it away irritably, his jaw clenching as he felt a coldness settle in his stomach. He strode over to the fireplace and with a slight exertion of will, a fire sprang to life in the kindling that Takan had laid there. The dark magician leaned on the mantel shelf and stared fixedly into the flickering flames as he mentally coaxed the fire to life. Akkarin was not a man who often felt disconcerted and he was both perplexed and annoyed that the slum girl – Sonea, he reminded himself- imbued such an alien feeling in him. Though Takan's fears that she was a ploy by the Ichani to infiltrate the Guild had occasionally played on his mind, he did not give them much credence and it did not fully explain the feeling of discomfort Sonea's presence in the Guild had brought. He had all but fled from her just now, suddenly filled with an aversion to finally meet the instigator of his disrupted nights.

That consequences would arise if the girl chose to stay and become a novice, Akkarin was certain. That those consequences would only impact on the social world of the Guild, as he had once surmised, the High Lord was now not so certain, though he was at a loss to explain why. He moved over to the wine cabinet, opening it, then he paused a moment and shut the door again, quickly turning away. Other things might drive him to the wine cabinet before the evening meal, but this girl was not going to be added to the list – not yet anyway.

_Let's hope that my unfounded worm of dread withers and dies, and that this girl, Sonea - _the name felt unfamiliar to him and it rolled around his mind- _is just a passing distraction for the gossips. _Akkarin grimaced. _I do not want to be drawn into their machinations; _I_ will keep well clear and leave the girl to Rothen and Lorlen._

He turned back to the fire again, his brow drawn in thought, then he abruptly straightened and mentally called to Takan through his blood ring to bring his cloak. The king knew that the girl had been found, but it wouldn't hurt to pay a visit and take delivery of Merin's gratitude personally. Akkarin was aware that he king had now overcome his initial fears, and was now intrigued by the idea of a slum dweller as a novice. Takan appeared and offered his master his cloak which Akkarin flung about his shoulders and, creating a warm sphere of air around him, he turned to the door and braced himself to face the bitter cold outside.

"Shall I send for a carriage master?" Takan enquired.

"No, thank you Takan. I will walk. I need to clear my head," and he gave the Sachakan,what he hoped, was a reassuring smile. _And I need to quell this inexplicable uneasiness I feel,_ he thought as he strode through the door and out into the crisp winters day.

* * *

Merin took a skewer of spiced meat from the plate and placed it on his plate, indicating that Akkarin should also serve himself. He licked his thumb and his emerald green eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

"So, do you think she will stay?" the king asked, then, pre-empting the High Lord's answer he chuckled mischievously. "I hope she does; no disrespect Akkarin, but some of the older Guild members are rather staid and set in their ways. I think this girl might wake you magicians up a little."

Akkarin raised a dark eyebrow. "I'm not sure that Lord Dannyl appreciates her methods of 'waking magicians up', as you put it," he commented dryly.

"Ah yes, that was unfortunate, but, still, if she stays it may quell the feelings of unrest in the Slums that have rumbled on since the boy was killed." The king fixed Akkarin with a penetrating glare, silently reminding the High Lord that he had been thoroughly unimpressed with the Warriors clumsy reactions on the day of the Purge. "The Guild owe me that much at least. The City Guard have been hard put to it in the weeks since the killing, with the greater number of skirmishes and robberies that have occurred as a result."

"Ending the Purge would do a lot more to appease the dwells ," Akkarin dared to remark softly, glancing tentatively at the king. Merin's fork hung suspended half way to his mouth and he sighed loudly.

"Let us not go there tonight Akkarin," Merin said with a discernible edge of tension. The servant who stood silently in front of the elaborately carved ebony door shifted nervously. The king put down his fork and reached for his golden wine goblet. "It is not just as easy as ending the Purge, and you know it."

"You are the king; it is as easy as you want it to be," Akkarin said dangerously in a low, soft voice. The king sat back abruptly in his chair and tilted his head, considering his friend intently in surprised vexation.

"Truly Akkarin, I never had you down as a champion of vagrants and wastrels. The excesses of Elyne must have left you sickened beyond redemption; since you returned from your travels you are like one of those sanctimonious do-gooders that petition me occasionally for funding for their charitable schemes. Like them, the nearest you have come to the slums is the North Road on your way in and out of the city, sat on your thoroughbred horse or festooned with grandeur in one of the Guild's finest carriages." Merin wiped his mouth with a napkin, throwing it down on the table in irritation. "Yet you pretend to know their lot and pity them!" The king wagged his hand in consternation at Akkarin.

"When you have your own house in order, you have leave to lecture me on mine. I won't remind you how long it took you to find one small waif, not to mention the incompetence of your Warriors in failing to apprehend her in the first place." Merin raised his eyebrows. "I dread to think the chaos that would ensue if they were under any real attack," he rebuked.

Akkarin frowned and his features darkened. "So do I," he muttered. " I assure you that Lord Balkan has been sternly tasked with drilling his Warriors and putting his camp in order. Nothing is of greater importance to me."

"Good," the king said and his face softened as he smiled and indicated to the servant that he should clear the plates and bring desert. "Now, no more talk of the Purge. Let us amuse ourselves in thinking of the plots and machinations that are being contrived as we speak, and all with the sole purpose of ridding the Guild of the taint which arrived today – or, as some will see it," he added hastily glancing at Akkarin. "Ah, what I wouldn't have given to have seen old Sarrin's face when he heard that she had been found; I'm sure he was hoping that she would lose control, taking the Slums with her!"

Akkarin managed a weak smile, knowing that he had pressed the king as far as was prudent tonight, and he inwardly sighed as he resigned himself to the frivolous and inconsequential conversation that now seemed likely to follow.

* * *

"Thank you; you may drop me here," Akkarin tapped the open window frame of the carriage, alerting the driver to stop outside the main entrance to the University. As the carriage door was opened and Akkarin stepped down onto the fresh, crisp layer of snow, the driver bowed but then glanced up from under his brows.

"Are you sure you want to alight here my Lord? The stables are much nearer to your residence on a night such as this."

Akkarin smiled perfunctorily at the man. "Quite sure. I have business in the University – and the cold does not usually trouble magicians," he added wryly. The carriage driver looked down in embarrassment.

"No, of course not my Lord. I'll bid you good night then."

Akkarin smiled more warmly. "Good night," he said softly.

The magician stood as still as stone - black against white - as the carriage pulled away and headed back around the circular road and on, through the gates, and into the city. Akkarin remained a moment more, at the mercy of the freezing elements, with no warming shield to protect him. He wished to clear his mind, shrouded as it was with the whirl of events of the day, and with more than a little of the king's best wine. His weary sigh echoed eerily off the deserted and ice-clad surroundings as he looked to his left down the path towards his residence. He slowly ran his fingers across his brow and, as he looked up again, the pale moonlight was refracted and glistened in the depths of his black eyes. Akkarin turned and walked with slow deliberation up the front steps of the University, the great doors were open as always, and greeted him with a yawning blackness. As he entered the deserted entrance hall, however, the walls gave off their magical, nacreous glow, and he used this light alone to guide him as he passed like a ghost in the night to his desired vantage point on the other side of the building.

A thread had pulled at Akkarin's mind ever since he had seen Rothen's image of the girl at the Meet following the Purge. The thread, gossamer thin at first, had grown stronger as the days and weeks passed, weaving an intricate pattern until Akkarin felt sure this girl was embroiled in a web of events in which he himself was tangled – the question he kept returning to was, who had spun the web, and who was the prey?

Was this girl, the first Natural in living memory, an innocent, or, as Takan feared, was she a deadly faren, laying in wait to spring a trap? The High Lord's instincts told him that the Ichani would not risk such a plan, even if they _had_ happened upon a willing Kyralian with the requisite power, which itself was not likely. Despite this logic, Akkarin could not shake the feeling that there was something about her.

_Something that a truth read would easily resolve,_ Akkarin thought. _No-one would question my request to read the girl; indeed, some would positively welcome it, given her background, though such a request would imply we do not trust her from the outset, and that is not good._

Akkarin came to stand at a long window at the far corner of the University, adjacent to the gardens and opposite the Magician's Quarters. The High Lord knew that Rothen's rooms were in the section of the living apartments he now had a view of, though he didn't know what he hoped to achieve by gazing across fixedly at the windows opposite. He just knew that he needed to think, to focus his mind on the girl and what it was that bothered him about her. As he watched, a soft flickering glow sprang to life at one of the windows he stared at, and then a pale oval of a face appeared. _The glow of a candle and not a magician's globe light, _Akkarin mused. _The girl!_ Impulsively the black-robed magician shrank back into the denser blackness.

A passing family group caught the girl's attention in the gardens below and she looked down. Her distant face, half shadowed in the darkness, suddenly stirred a memory and Akkarin frowned in frustration as he stared intently at the window opposite. Rothen's projection of her flitted across his inner sight, and then another image of an arm, thin and bruised as it sagged lifelessly as she was carried into the Guild by the Alchemist. Abruptly the swirling pictures stopped and juxtaposed themselves on another, older memory of the sunken-cheeked features of a rain drenched girl. The intended victim of the Ichani slave from two years ago!

_Of course! _Akkarin thought triumphantly. _It is the same girl – how did I not realise before?! The power I detected when I touched her cheek - how many slum girls did I think possessed such magic?! _Akkarin's eyes narrowed. _So she did live then, though I see that her circumstances did not improve; but then, why would they? _And he smiled wryly. _And yet here she is, at the Guild -_ Akkarin recalled her skill with a knife, and her escape from the Sachakan – _and with considerably more resourcefulness and resilience than the average novice. _His brow furrowed. _I will have to keep a close eye on her if she stays – she may become a very powerful magician one day._ The High Lord sighed, happy that he had solved part of the conundrum about the Guild's newest residence. _A truth read will not be necessary –for the moment at least,_ he decided.

As Akkarin mused, the girl suddenly glanced up and seemed to look directly across at him. His implacable gaze did not waver, and after a few moments, the face at the opposite window withdrew and the soft light was extinguished. A cold smile twisted the corner of Akkarin's mouth.

"Yes, your instincts are good. Stay away from me, if you know what is good for you," he whispered to the darkness that cloaked him in shadow. Akkarin recalled the girl's great store of un-tapped power and another thought came unbidden into his mind; sickened, he pushed it away with revulsion. His smile faded and a cold light flickered to life in his ebony eyes as, abruptly, he understood part of his reluctance to meet the girl.

Not many would grieve long or hard for this girl, and the Ichani slaves were coming ever more frequently to Imardin now. If she vanished it would be assumed she had fled to ply her trade as a rogue magician somewhere in the Allied Lands far from Imardin. Akkarin felt his stomach lurch at such thoughts. _I am not so lost that I will become like the Ichani, even to save my country,_ and his shoulders drooped a little. _I will not, _he thought emphatically to himself, and his soul inside him ached at even the thought that he might use a human life in such a way. He glanced back at the darkened window opposite. _Nevertheless, do not cross my path with temptation - Sonea- or we both might not like what you find, _and Akkarin turned and slunk back into the shadows and then strode with the stealth and gracefulness of a cat down the silent corridor until it seemed that the blackness of the night consumed him.

**A/N: I didn't think it impossible that the watcher at the window was Akkarin, although Fergun would be another candidate of course. Thanks for taking the time to read; thanks to my reviewers as always, and more feedback is always welcome!**


	7. Chapter 6 The Night Before

**Chapter 6 – The night before...**

Most of the day Cery's mind seemed to be fighting a losing battle against a fog of numbing confusion. When the magician had come with food earlier, Cery had a dim memory of being forced to drink a bitter liquid which he now guessed to be some kind of sedative. So the magician was not entirely ignorant to the resourcefulness of non-magicians, Cery had realised with cold amusement. The red-robed man had let slip that some kind of Hearing was taking place the next day, and that it involved Sonea and the deception she was to carry out against her will. Cery's captor obviously feared that he may make some last desperate attempt to escape, or at least draw attention to his predicament.

Despite the cloud over his senses, Cery managed a wry smile. The magician needn't have worried; the Guild had Sonea in their grasp and that was enough to ensure his compliance. Thinking about Sonea filled him with anger and dread, and yet part of him wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all; him, a would be Thief, held prisoner by a magician no less, in some kind of bizarre plot to force the girl he loved to join the Guild! He would not have believed it if it was one of Harrin's stories. Cery lay back on the cold stone and groaned despairingly. He longed for the slums; despite the cruelties of life the conditions brought, there was a simplicity and honesty in the dwells – even amongst the Thieves- a code of honour that he now craved; embroiled as he was in the subterfuge that had ensued ever since Sonea had gained the attention of the cursed magicians!

Waiting was the worst part. Occasionally sounds drifted distantly to his ears from above, though they were muffled by the mist of the narcotic, which never relinquished its hold throughout the day. Cery's thoughts kept returning to tomorrow and what would become of himself and Sonea after she had performed her deceit, as he knew she would. He kept such thoughts at bay by trying to interpret the sources of the disjointed sounds, but nothing could quite banish the constant background fear and foreboding that tomorrow would change everything; that events were about to be set in motion that would mean things would never – could never – be the same again.

The sounds above faded into an anguished silence as Cery guessed that outside, night fell. Despite the bitter cold, Cery felt as though the blood in his veins had been replaced by a burning, searing river of tension that flowed relentlessly and mercilessly on, until everything that Cery held dear was about to be engulfed in an inferno of flames from which there would be no escape.

* * *

Rothen sat on one of the wooden benches that were randomly placed throughout the communal common room of the Guild baths. An attendant smiled kindly at him as she placed a tray on a low table in front of where he sat and made to pour the sumi she had brought into a china cup. Rothen forestalled her with a shake of his hand.

"That's fine; I can pour it – I like my sumi to steep a little longer than most," and he smiled in gratitude at the woman.

"Of course my Lord. Can I get you anything else?" she asked.

"No, thankyou," Rothen replied and the servant bowed and walked back to an ante-chamber and busied herself with stacking robes and towels.

The magician sat back and rested his head against the padded headrest of the seat, his eyes closing as he ran his fingers across his brow wearily. It was late, but Sonea had seemed tense all evening, her nerves on edge, as she had flitted around Rothen's guest room unable to settle to any activity. Finally she had asked if he minded escorting her to the baths for a second time that day, in an attempt to calm her mind into a compliant state for sleep. Her dark eyes had entreated him as she promised she would forgo her early morning visit the next day if he would oblige her.

Rothen chuckled to himself as he recalled the ease in which he had agreed to her request, despite the hour. He foresaw that it would not be the last time that this extraordinary girl from the slums would guilelessly manipulate him to her will. From tomorrow he would be her guardian, he was sure of it, and the thought pleased him beyond the realms of knowing he could nurture her into a magician he would be proud of.

The girl held a quirky charm; her honesty and bluntness were refreshing; her sharply intelligent observations were amusingly insightful and her smile, though not as commonplace as Rothen would have liked, lit her usually sombre features and caused her dark eyes to dance mischievously, so that she greater resembled the carefree young woman he hoped she would become. Rothen and Yilara had always longed for another child, but it was not to be; now, it seemed, the fates had favoured him, and the alchemist knew with an odd certainty that he was already far advanced down the path that would lead him to finding a daughter.

"Tania told me I would find you skulking here," an amused voice broke Rothen's reverie. "You really do have a weakness for unwanted waifs and strays." Dannyl's face broke into a grin as he sat down next to his mentor, his tall frame bending awkwardly into the unyielding hard surface of the bench. Rothen glanced up resignedly, knowing from experience that nothing would prevent his young friend from having his jibe.

"She is not even officially your novice yet, " Dannyl continued, "and already she has you doing her bidding day _and _night," he concluded sarcastically.

Rothen's mouth pulled into a thin line, though his eyes twinkled. "Whilst Sonea is easily small enough to be called a waif, and you are undoubtedly a stray, I would not go so far as to say that no-one wanted either of you. _You _are admired by many, though you choose to ignore it, and, as we know, Sonea is wanted by Fergun," Rothen grimaced," though his motives are questionable at best." Dannyl smiled softly at the older man's response to his verbal sparring and he glanced slyly at him.

"She _has _got you wrapped around her finger though," Dannyl said, and was gratified to see the look of chagrin on Rothen's face.

"She is nervous about speaking before everyone at the Hearing tomorrow; surely that is understandable? She said that a bath would calm her," Rothen stated defensively before continuing. "It is not her fault that I still feel she needs escorting everywhere."

"And it's not _your _fault that she has a bizarre obsession with bathing," Dannyl commented dryly. "Ezrille has told me that she has you up at dawn every day to come down here."

Rothen cocked an eyebrow at his friend. "Only you would think that both rising early and bathing every day were bizarre Dannyl," and the older man laughed softly at Dannyl's affronted expression.

"I bathe...every...other day," Dannyl said indignantly and hung his head in mock contrition. Rothen's features abruptly sobered as he considered his former novice. He had always found the tall magician to be pleasantly affable, his personality endearing even, and yet Dannyl seemed determined to isolate himself; content to live his unusually solitary existence, keeping all but a select few at arm's length. Unbidden, the arrogant face of Lord Fergun came into Rothen's mind, whether because of the Hearing tomorrow, or because of other musings, the alchemist chose not to explore. He shook his head slightly to dispel his thoughts and he reached forwards towards the sumi.

"Sumi?" Rothen asked. "You may need it if you are planning to keep me company– I warn you that Sonea's baths are not known to be quick affairs." Smiling Dannyl nodded in the affirmative and rose to locate another cup. As he stood, Rothen eyed him appraisingly.

"Are you still intending to go ahead with your foolish exploration of the passages tomorrow whilst the Hearing is taking place?" The older magician asked impulsively, a look of resigned consternation playing across his face. Dannyl's face, however, broke into a broad grin.

"Of course! Fergun will be occupied, and I am not going to miss an opportunity to expose him," Dannyl's smile faded. "He's up to something, I know it!" He muttered before striding off purposefully to find a servant who could provide another cup. Rothen sighed as he stared after his friend.

"Oh Dannyl, why is it that you can't let it go...?" He murmured to himself.

* * *

Sonea still marvelled when she entered the Guild Baths, even though she had done so nearly every day in the last few weeks. To be clean! To be completely clean and stay that way was a thing a girl who had live all her life in the slums would never quite get used to, though the purpose of this particular visit was not to wash. She descended the short flight of stairs that led to the female section of the baths, the pale glimmers from the water below accentuated by the darkness that lay beyond the glass cocoon of the building. Sonea emerged suddenly on to a broad shelf overlooking a network of artificial pools. Cubicles had been constructed to provide privacy, and the entire chamber was faintly lit by globe lanterns that hung suspended from the vaulted ceiling which created softly shimmering reflections from the water.

As she made to strip off her shirt and trousers, Sonea realised how exhausted she was and thought ruefully that she should be in bed resting in preparation for the next day. As she gazed at the glass smooth surface of the water, she knew that sleep would mock her tonight; an arm's length away, but always out of reach. She was hoping that bathing might soothe some of her tensions away.

Sonea sat on the edge of the shelf and let her legs dangle in the water. It was warm and she gently let herself down into the quiet depths until she was immersed up to her shoulders. Her smooth forehead creased in worry. If she was to face tomorrow and carry out her lie convincingly, she had to forget, as best she could, the confusion and fear that were trying to eat at her, yet the last conversation with the magician, Fergun, stubbornly refused to be banished.

That Fergun could hate the dwells so profoundly that he was prepared to break his magicians vow and risk severe punishment was a thing that Sonea struggled to understand, and it caused a cold pool of fear to lap gently at her from within. Exactly what act was it that Fergun, once he had gained her guardianship, would request her to carry out? One thing that Sonea was sure of was that it would be heinous enough for the Guild to never entertain the idea of letting a dwell join them again. Despite the heat of the water, an icy shiver scraped down Sonea's spine as she acknowledged another certainty; that she had no choice but to carry out whatever deceit Fergun had in mind. If she did not, Cery might well die underneath the very ground she walked on.

Despite her harsh life, Sonea had never felt so utterly miserable or so completely impotent. A few short weeks ago, she would not have cared what the magicians of the Guild thought of her, but now, she admitted to herself, Rothen had changed all that. Whatever else he may be, Sonea knew beyond doubt that he was a man, decent and kind to his core and, strange as it seemed, she was certain that the lie she must tell tomorrow at the Hearing about who saw her first at the Purge, would be hurtful to him. Even stranger was the fact that she was loathe to cause him such pain. Also, now that she was at the Guild and subject to the scrutiny of many, she felt that the dubious honour of representing the dwells lay heavily on her shoulders, and she now found herself reluctant to fulfil the prejudiced preconceptions of them being fickle and untrustworthy.

Sonea's eyelids drooped and, not wanting to examine her motives for her new-found value of Guild opinion, she decided that she was too tired for coherent thought. She craved peaceful sleep; craved the relative sanity that the new day might bring when the deception would be carried out and she could at least begin to take stock of her exact predicament and try as best she could to find answers to her questions.

She stretched out her legs, the water a soothing balm to her aching mind. _At least I will meet the fabled High Lord Akkarin tomorrow, _she thought. _The way he is spoken of with such awe, I am expecting him to be twice the height of a normal man, leave earthquakes in his wake and breathe fire when he speaks! _Despite her melancholy mood Sonea could not help but smile to herself at the self-importance and vanity of magicians. _I probably know many men who are as formidable as he is; he is most likely a wizened old man who has all the magnetism of a reber! _She then took a deep breath and ducked under the water, letting the warmth of the pool suffuse through flesh and bone to bring its own form of comfort.

* * *

Akkarin sat at the large, polished table in the dining room of his residence. He looked around at the empty seats, struggling to remember the last time anyone had sat in one. It had even been some time since Lorlen had eaten with him here. A sigh escaped his lips as he toyed with a golden fork with long elegant fingers, absently spinning it, his eyes transfixed in an almost trance-like state. A soft click at the door made the magician glance up sharply, the fork clattering noisily as its motion suddenly ceased. The High Lord's expression softened into a half-smile as Takan placed a silver tray down on the table. The servant looked surreptitiously at the half eaten plate of food in front of his master.

"The food displeases you master?" The Sachakan enquired. "It was a dish from my childhood and, I confess, it has been a while since I have cooked it." Akkarin saw the look of hurt flash across Takan's face before he could disguise it.

"I'm sorry Takan," Akkrain smiled apologetically. "There is nothing wrong with the food; it is as delicious as always. I am just distracted, that's all. I was thinking instead of eating – a thing my nursemaid used to often chide me for when I was a boy." The dark magician picked up a glass of water and took a sip, his smile widening and his black eyes sparkling in sudden and unusual animation as he inwardly gazed on some buried scene from his past.

"_High thinking is all well and good young sir -" _she would say- _"but if cook reports that your plate went back to the kitchen only half-eaten again, I'll be in for a lash of your mother's tongue, and you know well yourself how sharp that can be..."_

Akkarin's wistful smile abruptly vanished and the light that was kindled in his eyes went out. _Yes, _he thought to himself, _I knew well enough how sharp that could be; almost as sharp as the sting of her hand across my face..._ He shook his head and quickly banished the memories.

Takan tilted his head and regarded Akkarin contemplatively as, first the fleeting smile softened his angular features, and then the customary brooding frown replaced it as the reminiscences chased across his master's mind. The servant tried to imagine Akkarin as a small child but failed miserably. He loaded the dishes onto the tray, his brow creased in deliberation. He glanced again at Akkarin and, as he saw the distant look in his master's gaze once more, the Sachakan's resolve crystallized.

"If you don't mind master, what has captured your thoughts so thoroughly that it has taken your appetite? That is rare, even for you," he ventured.

Akkarin smiled ruefully. "As you know, the girl – Sonea – has decided to stay at the Guild and become a novice."

Takan raised his eyebrows. "And that bothers you? Pardon me master, but I thought that you would be less concerned about her background than some." There was a hint of both surprise and disapproval in Takan's voice. The Sachakan flattered himself that he knew Akkarin better than any other ,and was irked and disappointed that he had misjudged him in this.

"It is not where she comes from that bothers me," and the magician fixed his servant with a hard stare, "as you should know well. No, I... ," he looked down at the table, " I don't know, I can't explain it." Akkarin shook his head irritably. "For her power to emerge by itself it must be great, which I know it to be – I sensed it." Akkarin met Takan's eyes steadily.

"You sensed it ? But I didn't think that you'd met the girl." Takan's forehead knitted into a perplexed frown. Akkarin took another sip of water then placed the glass down carefully.

"I haven't met her – not here at the Guild anyway. I think - no, I'm certain- that I met her briefly once before, two years ago."

Takan raised his eyebrows in query and, sighing, Akkarin began to explain how the girl had been stalked as a potential victim of an Ichani slave when the High Lord had come across them both, and how she had managed to evade her attacker when his salacious desires delayed his kill.

"The weather was atrocious, as I recall, and I'd lost sight of them for a few minutes," Akkarin said, his face grim as he continued. "When I located them again, the girl had certainly shown the slave the lessons of underestimating Kyralians; she had given him quite a pretty gash in his side with a knife." A savage light sprang to life in the magician's black eyes and he looked down, spreading his hands on the table. "But not before he had gone to work on her face."

Akkarin's mouth pulled in a grimace as he remembered the ugly bruise and blood that smeared her frightened face. "She ran into me as she fled from her handiwork. I offered her help – I intended to heal her; I doubt she would have said anything about the strange magician she had met stalking the slums." The High Lord let out a slow, frustrated breath. "Anyway, she ran before I could do anything. She didn't trust me and I can't say I blame her." Akkarin looked up and met Takan's golden eyes as he listened intently. The High Lord smiled. "And, before you ask -my face was obscured; I don't think she will recognise me, though it will be another reason to keep out of her way," he added under his breath.

"Before she fled," he continued, "I touched her cheek for a moment, but it was enough to sense the raw power that she held unknowingly inside her." Akkarin's gaze slid from Takan's and became distant. "I have wondered more than once what became of her; she was painfully thin." Takan moved around the table and absently pulled out a chair and sat down next to his master.

"So there is a potential wealth of unharnessed magic in the slums, and yet the Guild chooses to ignore it." Takan muttered, then his face suddenly darkened and he looked sharply at Akkarin . "But the Ichani will not," he stated grimly, before he frowned again. "I still fail to see what all this has to do with Sonea staying in the Guild. Surely it is a good thing to train her,_ if _she is as powerful as you think," he paused. "How can you be sure Sonea and the girl in the slums are the same person?"

Takan gave his master a keen glance. The line between servant, friend and confidant moved so frequently that the Sachakan sometimes found it hard to know which guise Akkarin wished him to adopt. Much, Takan had learnt, depended on Akkarin's mood, which was volatile at best, but which the Sachakan had learnt to judge correctly most of the time. Now, after hesitating briefly, the servant plunged on.

"You are not telling me something. What else bothers you ? – tell me," Takan added with quiet insistence. For an instant a cold, detached light flickered in the black stare, then Akkarin almost imperceptibly hung his head and took a grip on himself.

"You're too perceptive for your own good Takan. I am relieved that you are on my side, so to speak," the black magician murmured softly and a kind smile twisted his lips awkwardly, diffusing the momentary defensiveness he knew his servant would have detected. Akkarin sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair, stretching his back. "I'll try to explain, though I don't understand it fully myself, and that is what I find so frustrating." He leaned forwards again, resting his arms on the table.

"You know that I am able to sense others use of magic; that is why I knew of the girl from the moment she threw the stone at the Purge."

"Though you wrongly assumed it was a boy," Takan interjected dryly. Akkarin rolled the stem of his glass between his thumb and finger impatiently.

"Yes, yes...Well," he raised a dark eyebrow, "I can also detect the, the..." -and he struggled for the right words – "... the signature, if you like, of a magician. Does that make sense?"

Takan looked bemused and frowned his lack of understanding. The High Lord splayed his long fingers on the table.

"Each magician has a power source." Akkarin eyed Takan as he nodded slowly. "Well," he continued," each power source is as unique as the person who wields it. Like some other magicians, I can sense a person's power, especially if it is considerable, but unlike any other magician I know of, I can also identify the subtle differences _between_ powers. If someone I know, or have met before, uses their magic on the other side of the University, I could not only sense the use of magic, but I can also identify the user." Akkarin looked eagerly at Takan. "Now do you see?" The High Lord smiled, satisfied, as he saw understanding dawn in his servant's face.

"The power leaves an imprint of its owner, and you can differentiate between these imprints," Takan said slowly and he glanced at his master for confirmation that he had grasped the concept.

"Yes, yes!" Akkarin responded fervently.

Takan frowned. "And this has relevance to the girl because...?"

Akkarin's expression now mirrored the Sachakan's. "That is what I cannot explain so well," and he took a breath. "I met Sonea in the slums two years ago," he stated quietly. "I sensed her power; the imprint of her individuality was strong because her power was strong. When I saw Rothen's projected image of the girl it stirred an uneasiness I had felt ever since I detected her use of magic in the Purge; some stirrings of familiarity. It frustrated me over the next weeks – every time I detected her use of magic, I knew there was _something_ about it- I just couldn't make the connection." Akkarin paused and his jaw clenched tensely.

"Then, the day Sonea was found, I finally realised that I had a memory of her power from some time ago," his mouth tightened in consternation. "That she was the same girl as the one from the slums, and I couldn't believe how stupid I had been!" Akkarin's fingers released the glass and he balled his hand convulsively. "Even without my ability to detect a person's magical 'scent', I should have known it was the same girl; how many girls can there be in the slums who have such powerful magic?!"

"Not many would accuse you of being stupid, master," Takan murmured reprovingly. "It was two years ago – you have had more to cope with than most; and so what if it is the same girl? What does it matter?" The servant asked in bewilderment and sensing his master was still perturbed by something. Akkarin fixed his servant with an inscrutable stare.

"It matters because there is another part of the puzzle that I have not yet been able to put into place." The magician's eyes narrowed and he brought his fist to his lips in frustrated contemplation. "It matters because I have sensed her somewhere before she came to the Guild – somewhere odd; not when she was trying out her magic, and not two years ago in the slums. Somewhere else, only I cannot place it." There was a moment of thoughtful silence before Takan spoke.

"Maybe another time when you were in the slums – you may have passed her and..."

"No," Akkarin interrupted him. "Where there are lots of people around, I have to touch a person who is not actually using their power, or else, be searching specifically for them." The High Lord frowned and tapped the index finger of one hand on the table in thwarted concentration. "No; I have sensed her in a place with few others in the vicinity –I know it." Akkarin brought his fist down on the table, making the glasses and cutlery tinkle. "I just cannot think where or when, but somehow I know it is important! I have never felt as confounded as since this damn girl so spectacularly made herself known to us!" His face clouded. "She will bring even greater trouble before her graduation, I'm sure of it."

Takan smiled sceptically. "I caught a glimpse of her with Lord Rothen; I cannot believe such a small and fragile looking creature could be as disruptive as you imagine." The servant's smile became wistful. "I would like the opportunity to feed her up a little - I bet that she has never tasted anything that _I _would call real food in all her life," he commented thoughtfully, as if already planning what he could cook to tempt the girl.

Akkarin smiled indulgently at the food obsessed Sachakan. "Well you are not going to get the opportunity, so you can put _that_ idea out of your head." The High Lord then suddenly stared at the glass of water in vexation. "Takan? Why am I drinking water with my meal?". An exasperated expression flitted across the servant's face and he sighed, rising from the table and gathering the last of the dinner things onto the tray.

"Because, master, you said earlier not to bring wine with the food; that you needed to keep a clear head to think. Now I know what about, I can see that it obviously hasn't helped."

"No, it hasn't," Akkarin muttered with chagrin. "Though I _will _figure out where I detected Sonea's power before." He then smiled crookedly. "But in the meantime, bring some wine to my study, please Takan," and he sighed as he too rose. "It's the girl's guardianship hearing tomorrow, after the Meet to formally vote on whether to admit her into the Guild - which they will, of course. Even the doubters cannot resist the bountiful source of gossip she will bring over the next four years; not to mention the fact that her presence will remind them how vastly superior they think they are by comparison," he said wryly.

Akkarin strode gracefully to the door. "I want to look over the notes on Rothen and Ferguns' claims to her guardianship in case there is anything I need to draw Lorlen's attention to." He sighed despairingly and a frown furrowed his brow. "That is something else that eludes me," he muttered under his breath.

"Oh?" Takan enquired.

"Why, by the Eye, does a magician such as Fergun, want to be a slum girl's guardian?" Akkarin asked incredulously. "It makes absolutely no sense at all," he said in exasperation and he growled softly through clenched teeth. "Too many questions that I do not know the answers to; but I will- even if I have to get near enough to Fergun to be able to read his thoughts," and Akkarin grimaced at the thought of what lay behind the haughtily smug exterior of the Warrior. Takan laughed quietly and Akkarin glanced over his shoulder and arched a dark eyebrow. "Something amuses you?" The High Lord asked coolly.

"Just that you are even more irascible without your usual liquid fortification," and Takan lifted the tray and walked past his nonplussed master and out of the door. "Just remind me to never listen to you again when you request water any later in the day than the mid-afternoon break," he called back as he walked off down the corridor leaving Akkarin running his fingers through his unbound hair, a lop-sided smile tugging at his lips as he wearily acknowledged defeat.

**A/N: Thanks, if you have ploughed through such a long one! One more chapter covering TMG, unless that turns out to be too long and I split it! As always feedback is great and is food for my fan-fic writer's soul, so reviews are good!**


	8. Chapter 7 Everything Changes

**Chapter 7 - ...Everything changes.**

Akkarin sat casually back in his seat; his long fingers were steepled as he brought them to his lips in thought. From his elevated position at the front of the Guildhall he stared dispassionately at the scene before him, his expression betraying no emotion.

A red-robed magician was standing amidst the ranks of the assembled Guild members, his mouth pursed as he bent to hear something that his neighbour muttered to him from behind a hand. A general buzz of disquieted murmuring filled the air and the standing man nodded fervently at the words being whispered into his ear.

"Yes, you're right, you're right," the red-robed man said as he straightened, a look of contempt hardening his features. "Galen here speaks true when he says that we cannot trust this girl. She belongs to no family, to no House," his voice was scathing as he continued. "She has never paid tithes to the Crown or the Guild; why should we take her in as a novice and lavish her with all the privileges that brings when she has not earned her right to be here?!" A general noise of agreement filled the hall before a voice from the back of the room interjected in an angry retort.

"What madness! Surely our purpose is to nurture potential, wherever it is found. This girl is the first 'natural' in living memory – she could be a great magician one day, and more than pay back in kind any _supposed_ debt she owes for her learning." The unseen speaker concluded. There was sudden pandemonium as every magician present seemed to try and speak out at once. Many were now standing and gesturing angrily for attention. Over the cacophony even Lorlen's magically amplified voice strived to be heard. Only when the Administrator snatched up his hammer of office, smashing it down on the table before him, did the uproar subside.

"I will not tolerate such disorder!" Lorlen's voice was controlled, but everyone heard the anger underlying it. "This is the Guildhall and not some bol-house brawl!" He sighed and looked down, taking a deep breath before looking up and facing the Guild members once more."I think we have debated this long enough, and, depending on the outcome of the vote, we may have other business to move on to today." Lorlen glanced at the purple-robed figure of Rothen towards the front of the hall; the alchemist in turn stared intently at the Lord Fergun a few rows away.

"Please create your globe lights." As Lorlen made the request a sea of white spherical lights floated up above the heads of the gathered magicians. "Those who agree that Sonea should be offered a place at the Guild, turn your lights to brown; those who do not agree will leave their lights unchanged. Proceed."

A faint smile tugged at Akkarin's lips as, one by one, most of the lights turned to a glowing bronze shade of brown. As he thought, the Guild's interest was piqued by the girl, and those who were ambivalent to Sonea herself had an interest as to how she would fare as a novice. For himself, Akkarin was relieved that Sonea was to stay, if only because he was determined to solve the conundrum that inexplicably revolved around her. Also, he was somehow reluctant for her to return, her powers bound, to the slums where either the hardships of life, or the Ichani, might lead to her untimely demise.

"The vote is carried." Lorlen's voice broke the High Lords musings. "Sonea is to be offered a place at the University, and with it she will receive every privilege that brings." Lorlen eyed the gathering speculatively. "I would remind you that, from this moment, Sonea's background is irrelevant and that she is to be shown the same courtesies as every other novice." A general look of contrition passed over the faces before him as the Administrator surveyed them sternly, he then smiled perfunctorily . "Good. Now we may move on to the matter of Sonea's guardianship. We will have a short recess for those to leave who wish to. Thankyou."

There was a rustle of robes and an excited hum of voices as Akkarin descended the stairs, his black robes billowing so that it almost seemed he glided like some ominous bird of prey towards the Administrator below. The High Lord smiled at his friend as he came to join him whilst Lorlen rifled through a stack of papers on the table before him.

"The king will be pleased," Lorlen stated quietly as he glanced up at Akkarin expectantly. His friend gave a wry smile.

"Yes; he thinks that giving a dwell this opportunity will somehow lull the rest into some kind of apathetic gratitude."

Lorlen looked up sharply. "And you do not?" he enquired, his eyebrows raised. Akkarin's smile became self-deprecating.

"It doesn't matter what I think Lorlen." Akkarin sighed wearily, then smiled warmly at his friend. "Would you like to come by later- we haven't discussed our little family for a while, and, after today, there will be much to talk over," Akkarin added softly so as not to be overheard.

"Of course - but you're not staying for the Hearing?" Lorlen asked, surprised. Akkarin's face clouded slightly.

"No. Sonea is to stay at the Guild; that is the limits of my interest. I am sure that you'll keep me informed of anything worthy of report, though I predict that she will thoroughly disappoint the gossips and be completely unremarkable," Akkarin answered.

As he spoke, the High Lord heard a crowing peel of laughter ring out above the general noise of the Guildhall. Fergun was stood only a few paces away conversing with his colleagues and looked smugly satisfied with himself about something. Akkarin frowned and, before he could think better of it, he cast out a thread of power. The warrior threw back his head and laughed again unaware that a foreign presence was sifting through the upper most regions of his mind.

A few minutes later, Akkarin strode from the hall lost in his own thoughts and oblivious to the trail of wary reverence he left in his wake. Not registering any of the faces, he instinctively inclined his head to the magicians who fell back before him, bowing in their habitual display of respect. A vibrant mix of coloured silk milled around him as he purposefully forged his path, and then, in the periphery of his vision, the incongruous figure of a child caught his eye, rooted to the spot as she was amidst the surrounding activity.

As Akkarin's gaze focused on the diminutive figure, he suddenly met the wide, dark eyes of, not a child, but a young woman – the slum girl, Sonea. Something unexpected lurked behind her fearful stare and, unsettled, Akkarin quickly looked away as he pushed aside the impulse to study her further now that she was before him. He quietly drew in a deep breath to quell the unease that lurched in the pit of his stomach and, remembering Fergun's thoughts, he hurried past – he had some tunnels to investigate, and urgently.

* * *

"Was that him?" Cery asked as he hurried after his rescuer whilst continuing to gawp at the splendour of the university around him. He didn't look up at the man he guessed to be the High Lord, but he was nevertheless intensely aware of the dark figure besides him. Akkarin frowned slightly.

"Who?" the magician asked in a smoothly resonant voice that Cery thought matched his elegantly detached demeanour.

"The man – the one you were talking to just before you found me," Cery answered. "Was that Fergun, come to finish me off?" Cery grimaced at the thought that he may have had such a close shave. Akkarin's stride did not falter as he responded in low, vaguely amused tone.

"No; that was another would-be rescuer. In fact, the same surprisingly resourceful magician that found your friend." A silence followed as Cery concentrated on the tap of boot on stone, trying to summon the courage to give voice to his concerns.

"She will be..." the shorter man began before suddenly feeling foolish next to the formidable magician besides him, but he cared too much about Sonea and so plundered on. "You will... She will be happy here won't she? - Sonea, I mean." Cery paused but there was no response from the magician and he took a breath and continued, stealing a glance up at Akkarin who frowned slightly. "She's a good person- she deserves to be happy; she didn't ask for any of this. She...she means alot to me..." he tailed off awkwardly as he felt his cheeks flame. He sensed the tall magician turn towards him, though he kept his steady pace.

"I know that Ceryni," Akkarin said softly and not unkindly. "I did not intend to pry – I'm sorry," he added with sincerity. "I just had to check..."

"...that I wasn't a low-life, untrustworthy Thief in collusion with Sonea to take over the Guild – right?" Cery interjected sarcastically

"Something like that." Akkarin's mouth curled in a half-smile by way of an apology before his expression sobered. "What I did see is that you have a true sense of honour and your loyalty to the girl – to Sonea – does you credit." The High Lord recalled the flashes of a life that he had seen through Cery's memories and how he had felt humbled by the hardships the young man had endured in his short life; unexpectedly, Akkarin had also felt vague stirrings of envy as he witnessed the strong bonds of friendship and belonging, of loyalty and even pride, that underpinned Cery's thoughts. Cery's voice broke the magician's pondering.

"If you saw how _I _feel about her, you must have also seen that _she_ does not feel the same; for the best, I suppose, if she is to stay here. Wouldn't want me visiting me sweetheart all the time – them magicians might think that the place was being overrun with stinking dwells." Cery snorted softly at the thought before his mouth pulled down in an unhappy line. "She deserves better than me anyway," he said as he studied his feet, guessing that the magician wasn't remotely interested in his ramblings, but needing to reinforce Sonea's value to him nonetheless.

"I've always thought that she was born out of place; that she belonged somewhere else. Guess that's why I think she's special," and, again, he chanced a glance at the dark-haired man at his side. "Maybe the Guild is the place that she belongs."

"Maybe," Akkarin agreed, though a line furrowed his brow. "Ah, here we are," he said gesturing ahead of him.

As they approached a set of enormous doors an indistinct hum could be heard from beyond. The High Lord stopped and looked down sternly at Cery. "This is the Guildhall; the Hearing is taking place in there as we speak. Are you ready to face a room full of magicians Ceryni?" Akkarin asked with veiled amusement. The young man's mouth went suddenly dry and he nodded, not trusting his voice. He glanced down in dismay at his dirty and dishevelled state; it would do nothing to overcome the prejudices awaiting him.

"You will remember our agreement? " Akkarin asked under his breath as he pinned Cery with a darkly intense stare. Again Cery nodded and held the black eyes with an almost physical discomfort. As he did so, Cery noticed that the jet gaze slipped momentarily out of focus.

"We come not a moment too soon," the black-robed magician murmured, and then one of the vast doors in front of them opened suddenly with a click, making Cery jump.

"Does anybody contest this conclusion?" A voice asked from somewhere at the front of the hall that lay beyond the doors.

"I do." As Akkarin strode across the threshold and into the hall, the atmosphere perceptibly shifted as the magicians instantly recognised the owner of the deep voice. The High Lord glided down the aisle with Cery beside him, totally ambivalent to the puzzled and slightly slack-mouthed Guild members that lined either side, for his attention was focused on a small figure at the front of the hall.

There was no avoiding her now; the whole room was watching and he had to banish this ridiculous apprehension he felt about the girl. He was revered by the whole Guild, and rightly so – he was not going to let one small beggar-girl disconcert him in such a way. As he neared Sonea his gaze intensified as he looked at her clearly for the first time. He noticed the sheen of mahogany-dark hair that curled in her neck and brushed her eyes where it had grown unchecked. Her skin was alabaster white and just as flawless - unlike that grim night in the slums two years ago. She was delicately framed and her cheeks remained sunken despite her improved diet; her mouth was generous by comparison. But it was her eyes that held Akkarin's attention; like dark pools of night, they held something far deeper than the amorous and often vacuous gazes of the women at court ever had, in spite of the girl's young age. Now though, the eyes were wide and the black arch of brows that framed them were raised in fearful captivation as Akkarin strode towards her.

Again, something shifted in the dark stare and the High Lord detected an aura of shock and fear that exuded from her surface thoughts. _So, someone has informed her about the formidable and powerful High Lord, _and Akkarin inwardly smiled at the image the Guild members had of him. _It serves me well; no-one expects me to be overly familiar, and they will not expect me to have much of an interest in this girl either._

A sudden urge to further delve into Sonea's thoughts overcame Akkarin, but he pushed it away. Cery was speaking to her and she suddenly glanced up at the High Lord, obviously puzzled at the unexpected arrival of her friend. A smile pulled at the corner of Akkarin's mouth at the thought that this small, frightened and clearly bemused creature had occupied his thoughts so much in the last weeks. She was nothing more than a beggar girl who, by an accident of nature, had been thrust into circumstances beyond her control or comprehension. There was nothing about her that should trouble him, he concluded as he walked up the stairs to assume his position below the king's chair. He had been foolish to be unnerved by the coincidence of this unexpected 'natural' being someone that he had come across before. No, she could not present any threat or danger to him - the thought was absurd to him now.

* * *

Lorlen sat in his chair, every muscle in his body coiled so tightly he marvelled that he could still breathe. He could feel Akkarin's gaze boring into his back –or, at least, that is how it now felt to him following the revelations of Sonea's truth read. Every one of his senses was numb; all he felt was a towering, choking bitterness at the magnitude of Akkarin's betrayal, for Lorlen could not comprehend it as anything else. To pretend to friendship as Lorlen now assumed Akkarin had; to use a bond that the two magicians had shared since they were novices, only to resort to...to evil! Lorlen was struggling to believe it, but what he saw in Sonea's mind was truth and it could only mean one thing.

As the magicians in the Guildhall began to disperse, engrossed in animated discussions about the scandals the Hearing had brought, Lorlen rose mechanically to his feet and headed down the stairs, his strides becoming quicker with every step as his legs belatedly obeyed the commands from nerve and sinew. Seemingly from a vast distance, someone called his name. Recognising the voice, Lorlen feigned ignorance and, staring fixedly ahead, he steadfastly forged a path through the magicians who might waylay him as he strode out of the Guildhall, not stopping until he was outside the university. He knew there would be questions later – he would plead a headache following the truth read- but, for now, he could not trust his thoughts, especially if Akkarin had the skill that Lorlen had long suspected him to have.

Bright sunlight dazzled the Administrator's eyes and a cold sickness settled on him causing him to reel backwards. _Akkarin – a black magician?_ he thought, confused despite the evidence, but slowly reason began to fight its way back through the miasma in his brain. He had no way of knowing how powerful the High Lord was; to reveal his secret to the other Higher Magicians now might open the way for Akkarin's dissenters to seize the opportunity and stand against him without due consideration. Akkarin might well be strong enough to withstand an assault from the whole Guild; from every magician in the Allied Lands even.

A wave of dread, like a knife twisting slowly in his gut, overcame Lorlen; he had to consider this information carefully – his move against Akkarin would have to wait, though Lorlen did not want to explore too deeply his motives for delaying the exposure of his friend. He drew in a shuddering breath and abruptly began to walk in a daze, not caring where his feet took him; all that mattered was to get away from the Guild and the taint of misery and betrayal that lay heavily now on the place that he knew as home.

* * *

Dawn was breaking four months later when Akkarin finally guided the tired and sweating mare onto the towering cliffs of Sheel. He had woken whilst night still lay over the world and with a bizarre impulse to be free of the Guild, of the city – if only for a short time. He left his residence not really knowing where he was going, but somehow he had unknowingly guided the horse to this much loved location from his childhood. He had taken a more direct, but harder, route, and, once out of the city, he had seen few people, and those he had met had taken one look at his robes and had shrunk away, heads bowed, and no-one had bothered him. And now, with the first bloody rays of the sun breaking in the east, he emerged onto the dizzyingly sloping sward of grass that rolled away to the cliff tops beyond.

The mare snorted thankfully as Akkarin released his hold on her and slid from the saddle to stand gazing out across the magnificent vista of sea and sky. Horse and rider had reached a rapport during the last months and, before lowering her head to graze the untouched grass, the mare nudged affectionately at Akkarin's hand as he stroked her soft nose gently. The dark magician sank down onto the turf, glad to rest as he sent healing energy to his aching muscles.

It was not often such a stifling mood assailed him, and so he had indulged it. Though no longer a slave, the High Lord felt that chains of responsibility and duty bound him still; the heavy weight of knowledge dragging at him, leading him to carry out the inescapable tasks of killing that he must perform to keep the people of Imardin safe from the Ichani and their slaves. But Akkarin would be free of the chafing bonds at times, belying the carefully contrived detached and aloof demeanour that he even tried to convince himself of. He knew that Takan would admirably deflect any queries as to the High Lord's absence for a day or so at least.

As he lay on the grass, a westerly wind blew the tangle of unbound, black hair back from his face and for a while he simply watched the sky lightening as dawn gave way to full day. The sea, far below him, glittered like liquid glass as the early mists began to clear. The air smelled of salt - clean and invigorating. For the first time in a long time, Akkarin felt peace stealing upon him and he grasped and held the feeling gratefully. The importance of his secret activities still softly goaded him from within, but, for a while, a short while, he could be free of the dark influences that had haunted him for so long – or so he thought.

Akkarin made a pillow of his cloak and he settled himself comfortably, welcoming the sun's strengthening warmth on his face. Lulled by the drone of waking insects, the murmur of the sea, the comfortable snuffling of his horse that grazed nearby, he slept, and memories, painful and unwelcome, assailed his unconscious mind...

_It was the sound of the drum that first began to rouse Akkarin's senses from the fog imposed by both the strange draining of his powers and the narcotics forced upon him. He stumbled between his captor and a slave, feet dragging, limbs refusing to co-ordinate, and with only the haziest idea of where he was or what was happening to him. He was a Guild magician! How could he be treated like this? How was it possible? Dimly he recalled being forced to drink something that tasted bitterly acrid; trying to resist, to strike out at the cruelly leering faces, but not having the strength. Now, his clouded brain sensed danger but he felt too dulled and apathetic to care – until the drum, pounded by one of the other raggedly clad slaves, began to impinge on his senses..._

_At first Akkarin thought it was the muffled beating of his own heart, but then he realised that the sound was coming from beyond his body. It seemed to disturb the air around him, suffuse the sandy floor beneath him. Unconsciously he began to walk in rhythm with it, his movements gaining more coherence. The billowing, silken fabric of tented pavilions blurred the limits of his vision; he sensed the power that flowed from the man beside him – its limits unimaginably deep, and the drumbeat seemed to be its slow inexorable pulse._

_Suddenly, Akkarin's tall frame jerked with a spasm as, without warnng, the blinding heat of firestrike coursed through his veins, searing his insides so that his throat felt parched and he was unable to cry out. It lasted only an instant and when he was released he became vaguely aware of soft, malevolent laughter and cruel faces that swam before his blurred sight ,making him feel nauseous. Someone shook him violently and he almost fell, regaining balance only when he was forcibly pulled upright. Like some kind of prelude to a macabre entertainment, the drumbeat ceased with one final roll, but Akkarin still heard it. It continued in his mind, throbbing, insistent, like a strange source less call._

_Akkarin noticed the silhouettes of men against the light of a flickering fire; saw the long black length of a whip as it writhed in his captor's grip like an impatient serpent, coiling itself to strike. For a moment ice-clear reason managed to assert itself in Akkarin's mind and he realised that he had been hopelessly snared by his own arrogant ignorance of this land and its people. He might have tried then, with one last effort, to fight back against the injustice of his predicament, but his numbed brain and body still hadn't the capacity to rally. The Guild magician faced the realization that he might be about to die; that in some twisted sense of reparation, these Sachakans had tricked him, and may be about to bleed and burn his life from him and he was too weak to withstand them._

_For the first time in his life Akkarin was truly afraid, yet the fear of torment was eclipsed by the infinitely greater terror of what the Guild might face in the wake of his destruction. These Ichani, as they called themselves, had read his mind, and what they had found there had pleased them beyond reason. No matter what the cost, he had to find a way to buy some time; to play their game – by their rules if necessary. He had to become valuable to them and he had sensed that his power and his standing as a Guild magician might provide the bait that was necessary. A thread of hope swept aside the last remnants of the drugs effects as the crack of the whip assaulted his ears and, in the next moment, a white-hot heat seared his back._

_He fell sprawling to the floor, gagging on the dusty sand that clogged his mouth and nostrils. Coughing, his head spinning, he tried to raise himself but fell back with a gasp as pain shot across his skin once more. Akkarin tried desperately to scramble to his feet again but his legs, weak as a newborns, treacherously gave way beneath him. Instead he rolled aside in a feeble, futile effort to protect himself as the whip spat down and tore through clothing to bite at the unprotected flesh beneath. Venomous laughter dinned in his ears as firestrike punctuated each external lash with a pain that exploded within him with such murderous force that the scream he tried to give voice to was a silent travesty._

_With each relentless strike, a fragment of the young magician who had left the Guild so full of optimism and ambition, was flayed away until only an iron will remained. The Guild had to be warned. He had to live! He would live – and these men, these Ichani, would rue the day that they had ever met Akkarin of House Velan, family Delvon._

_In spite of the fresh agonies that assailed his mind and body, a cold, completely lucid, spark of light was born in the depths of Akkarin's fathomless black eyes. Like a star in the darkness it burned steadily, ever present, even when, later, the bright light of day tried briefly to out-shine it, night fell again and the cold light's flickering presence could almost be seen in the magician's gaze, throwing spears of malevolent fury to light the dark road that, from that day in the Sachakan Wastes, Akkarin was destined to tread..._

The mare released Akkarin from his tortured dreams with a sharp, challenging whinny. His black eyes snapped open as he inhaled a ragged breath and stared, momentarily disoriented, at the clouds that skittered across the early summer sky above. The real world asserted itself in the High Lord's mind once more and he propped himself up on his elbows, squinting against the light that now flooded the cliff tops before a familiar voice reverberated in his head.

_-Master! I am sorry to disturb you, but your new friend has some urgent information regarding our unwelcome guest. I thought you would want to know. _Takan's mental communication sounded anxious and Akkarin knew that the servant would not have contacted him unless there had been another death.

_-Thankyou Takan. __I will be back by nightfall_, the magician responded with a hint of weariness that he could not disguise. The solitude of this secluded place had been a balm to his mind but the peace had not lasted long. Akkarin sighed heavily as he felt a familiar weight pull at him, hauling him reluctantly to his feet; dragging him back to the Guild; to his duty; to the role thrust upon him by the cruelties of fate; a role it seemed he would never be free of – the secret Black Magician of Imardin.

**A/N: Well, this is the conclusion of events from TMG - what did you think? Shall I continue with TN? Thanks for reading! Reviews are always inspiring!**


	9. Chapter 8 Acceptance

**After some doubt and deliberation, I have decided to carry on with TN - wisely or not! The first chapter follows, though I am publishing it as a direct continuation so that it will flow as one story. I've been plagued by illness lately so apologises for the delay in updating; I will try to update every two to three weeks from now on.**

**Chapter 8 – Acceptance**

The hour was late. Following their meal, the six or so people that sat in the unusually comfortable chairs did not hurry to leave as a servant bustled about carrying away the dishes that had been laden with a sumptuous meal, and refilling their bugs with bol. Despite the summer heat in the city above, the room, like all of its underground companions, was chilly, and the fire blazing in the hearth crackled cheerfully and suffused a soporific glow over the men's faces.

The occupants of the room eyed each other lazily over the rims of their mugs; the idle conversation that drifted between them belying the shrewd scrutiny taking place behind the seemingly ambivalent gazes. Only the huge figure of Gol, squeezed into one of the chairs and merrily slurping his bol, seemed genuinely at ease, but then, Cery was a long time friend and he, unlike the others present, had no reason not to trust him. As time passed, the men seated around the fire began to shift uncomfortably, and the façade of friendly companionship began to fade. One of the men cleared his throat impatiently as he glanced around the room.

"Looks like Cery's doing alright for himself just lately." The speaker's face darkened with suspicion. "Wonder how he can keep rooms like these down 'ere - he must have friends and favours I've never heard of. I know his ol' da had connections, but still..." he trailed off, disgruntled, as he examined the well stocked wine cabinet.

"Oh, he has – got friends you won't have heard of, I mean," Gol said eagerly as he grinned, unable to disguise the delight he felt at knowing something the men around him did not; men, moreover, of no small consequence amongst the criminal networks of Imardin.

"And is _that _who we are here to meet tonight?" another gruff voice spoke up, this time from a squat man who appeared to have a strong dose of Lonmar blood in him. "Cery spoke of some work he had for us; I don't know about you," the man continued as he glanced at his companions, "but I told him I weren't all that interested." He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and snorted suddenly.

"It can't pay no better than my current employer and that's proper handy work," he said with a sly grin as he quickly lifted his jacket to reveal the briefest of glimpses of a belt tooled with all manner of knives and picks. "I can't be doin' with this sniffing around and getting rid of dead meat after the main event – where's the fun in that eh?"

"Why d' ya come then? You're all talk, that's what you are!" Another man muttered dangerously.

Gol shot a nervous glance around the room as the tension shifted. "He's 'ere for the same reason you all are: 'cos you don't like these strange murders; 'cos you don't want you, or yours, to be next, and the City Guard ain't doin' nothin' about it."

"And Cery reckons he can?" Someone else interjected incredulously.

"Cery – and you, if you have a mind – can help a man who can," Gol retorted.

"Well, whoever this man is, he's late, an' I got things to be doin'," the short Lonmar said emphatically as he made to rise from his chair, but then stopped, frozen, as the door at the opposite end of the room opened and two figures entered. The shorter of the two, all the men in the room knew well; Ceryni – the young man who had been dabbling in Thieves work of late, running errands and other business for the Thief, Faren. As for the other...All the men quickly focused on the tall black-haired stranger at Cery's side and, as one, an ice-cold finger ran down their spines.

If they had been asked, not one of the men present could have explained it – the man was a total stranger; they had no reason for alarm; this was their territory. Yet there was something in the intensity of the near black eyes, in that cool, aquiline face, that struck fear into their hearts. The man who had half risen from his chair fell back into it, breaking the hiatus as the door snapped shut. Cery came into the room and gestured behind to the stranger who still stood there, unmoving.

"Gentlemen, my apologies for our lateness - and my thanks for coming at my request. This," and he glanced behind him, "is the man I spoke of; the one who knows the nature, if not the identities, of the murderers who are plaguing us." Cery paused as this information was digested and he stared intently at every man in the room before him.

"If _we_ can track them, _he_ can stop them. He knows how to..." and Cery swallowed hard, though his gaze was implacable and steady, "...how to kill them."

The men frowned and exchanged glances. "What do you mean, 'their nature'; and how can he stop them when no-one else can?" One of the men asked, suddenly regaining his composure, though he looked only at Cery, his eyes avoiding the tall shadow at the young man's shoulder. At the words however, the black-haired man smiled.

"Peace Sevli," he said quietly, though his deep voice was coldly clear and carried across the room. "I know of their nature because I share it, and this reason alone makes me the only one who can stop them," the stranger continued, as Sevli flashed a look of consternation at Cery who, in turn, looked at his tall companion with surprise before turning back to face his fellow Thieves, shaking his head almost imperceptibly to indicate that he had not revealed their names. The tall, dark stranger moved into the room with the lithe gracefulness of a cat.

"Sir," Sevli said through clenched teeth, though his eyes were alight with curiosity. "It seems you have the advantage over us; you know my name, but I do not know yours."

The dark stranger smiled again, thinly. "Oh, I believe you know of me, though we have not met before." An expectant silence hung in the air but the stranger did not supply his name. The Thieves sat transfixed by the man of whom they were inexplicably afraid; a dark aura of cool confidence exuded from him, and though he was an interloper in the heart of the Thieves domain, it did not seem to trouble him and this gave the aura a dangerous edge that made the gathered men wary.

The Lonmar man, bolstered by Sevli's words, now spoke out sharply. "Who are you?" His tone was aggressive. "What is your business with us?"

Again, the chilly smile – a smile of utter confidence. "My business is with Cery, but he has informed me that he may need some help from time-to-time, so – here I am," the dark stranger spread his arms, "to persuade you that it would be in your, and Imardin's, best interests to aid him." The man's smile abruptly vanished. "The murders will not stop without me, and I have been assured that you are the best in the business to help me in my task." At the man's side, Cery shifted nervously. "Cery will ensure that you are handsomely compensated for any inconvenience." The smile returned. "It will exceed anything you can be offered elsewhere."

"That's all well and good," the Lonmar man barked as his confidence strengthened, "but you still haven't told us who you are; and what do you mean – you are the same nature as the murderers? How do you know there is more than one? Come now; who, or _what _are you? By whose authority do you come into our domain?" The Thief purpled as he gave Cery a withering look. "By _his _invitation?" The man's voice rose in incredulity. "He is only a boy who dabbles in our business; an upstart who thinks that a few acquired luxuries mean that he can make bargains above his station! Who are you?!" he demanded furiously now, with all fear forgotten completely.

The stranger's eyes changed; a cold light seemed to awaken in their depths and his lips twitched in malevolent amusement. "Who I am, I will keep to myself for the moment – if you will allow it," he mocked softly. " But as to _what _I am, I can tell you that in part. I am a magician," he stated levelly, and watched with interest as the colour drained from the faces that stared back at him. "The murders plaguing Imardin are magical; the magic used is..." the stranger's lips twisted," ... shall we say 'foreign' in nature, and the Guild do not recognise it or know how to overcome it." The dark-haired man now smiled wryly. "I, however, can. I see no need to involve the Guild when we can be mutually beneficial to each other without them."

Sevli stood up suddenly. "How do we know that you speak the truth? You, you could be a fraud, a trickster, manipulating us to do your bidding."

The tall stranger sighed ominously. "As you wish." He snapped his fingers and, one by one, the flickering torches in their wall brackets went out. Only the firelight remained, and by its red glow the magician scanned the half-circle of stunned faces.

"Just a trickster's small magic," someone growled in the gloom. "Nothing a first year novice couldn't achieve in the blink of an eye I'll bet."

Only the malign and impatient glitter of the magician's eyes could be seen as he snapped his fingers again and the fire was abruptly snuffed out with a hiss, plunging the room into darkness save for a thin bar of light shining under the door from the passage beyond. There was a clatter as a chair was knocked over. In the shadowed darkness the magician looked upwards and, as he did so, the low ceiling of the chamber seemed to melt away so that it appeared open to the sky far above. Someone gave a muffled cry of panic as steely clouds boiled angrily overhead and a sudden howling wind, like the crying of a hundred tortured souls, beat against the senses of the room's occupants.

The high, thin, hurricane-shriek of the gathering storm above seemed to set the room's foundations quaking beneath the men's feet. Silver lightning shattered across the sky, its brilliance illuminating the cowering occupants of the room as they recoiled in horror from the tormented heavens above and closed their ears with their hands from the incessant high-pitched screeching of the vicious wind. The murderous clouds wheeled slowly at first, then, gathering pace, they massed into a huge whirling vortex, the centre of which appeared to be moving inexorably closer to the room below.

Only the strange magician stood impassively, his face a mask of cold, detached interest. Cery, by his side, looked intently up in horror, but did not flinch. The tall magician glanced across at the half-dozen huddled forms and his dark eyes narrowed. Then, as he looked up once more, the livid storm flicked out of existence; the lightning vanished; the howling voice of the hurricane shattered into nothingness. Stars glared coldly down from a clear summer sky and, at the far end of the room, the faint glow of the rising moon stained the top of the roofless wall with a pearlescent glow.

Slowly the company of men uncurled itself from its crouched position as they realised the supernatural storm had gone. The fire flared into life once more, dancing merrily, and then the torches. When the men dared to raise their heads, they saw that the ceiling was whole and they did not doubt that Imardin lay solidly above them again.

Cery stood next to the magician, his heart racing and his mouth dry, though he managed to mould his features into a look of calm authority – the situation as a whole, and his in particular, rested on a knife-edge. This could prove a pivotal moment in his career. The gathered Thieves were recovering their composure; restoring the scattered chairs and sitting back on them shakily as they tried to regain some semblance of dignity. The magician smiled crookedly.

"Just a small illusion, though _not _something a novice or a magician of little power could achieve, I assure you." He held the gazes of the mute men who sat facing him with eyes as cold as the depths of the sea. "I trust I have proved myself to your satisfaction." The stranger's smile became warmer and he inclined his head slightly, as if in apology. "I am sorry if I caused you any distress, but I have no time to waste; I had to make my point emphatically." He paused then and gave the men an odd, almost entreating look. "I will wait in the next room so that you can discuss with Cery if you wish to be of service to us both."

At these words Cery surreptitiously scanned the faces in the room. It was impossible to infer much from what he saw; as yet the assembled Thieves, of moderate to lesser importance, were too shocked to react coherently to what they had just seen and heard. Once this stunned hiatus had worn off, Cery could not guess how they would respond, or where he would find himself amongst Imardin's criminal underworld. The young man drew in a shuddering breath. In the last few months Cery had received money and influence from his new employer at the Guild – enough of both to get him favourably noticed by some that mattered, yet they had been reluctant to help him and his unknown master. Tonight's meeting had been Cery's idea; he only hoped he had judged the men he had carefully selected correctly, though somehow he knew that this formidable magician had an innate ability to instil reverence and admiration, even amongst Thieves.

As the stranger reached the door of the room he paused and glanced back, laying a hand on the door frame. "There is no obligation," he said matter-of-factly. "The point of my little display just now was not to threaten or intimidate. If you choose not to help, you will never see or hear from me again-" then his eyes glittered dangerously- "as long as you never speak of this meeting to anyone. If you do, I cannot guarantee that I will not pay you a visit when you least expect it." He tilted his head and smiled slightly. "But I hope you will join me in ridding the city, and your people, of the scourge that currently blights it." And with that he turned and left the room.

* * *

Cery closed the door silently behind him and looked grimly towards Akkarin as he stood, hands clasped behind his back and lost in thought. The young Thief considered him a moment; even with his robes concealed by a shabby cloak, he was an imposing presence. Stern faced and aloof as the High Lord was, Cery nevertheless detected something else about him and he had always considered himself to be a good judge of character. There was a sense of fairness and justice at the core of this man; Cery had sensed it the first time they had met, and it was borne out by the events of that day, nearly six months ago now. During the couple of times that Cery had met with him since, Akkarin had displayed no hint of disdain or contempt for him and had shown him every courtesy, albeit in a politely detached manner which Cery suspected he used with everyone, whether a dwell like himself or the most esteemed member of the Houses. Cery's instincts told him that the magician was true to his word and, besides, he was the leader of the Guild – an establishment that Sonea would join tomorrow; it could not hurt that Cery helped Akkarin when the High Lord knew what Sonea meant to him. Cery abruptly snapped out of his reverie when he sensed a dark gaze boring into him.

"Well?" Akkarin asked with a sharp edge to his smooth voice. Cery realised that his face would not be inspiring hope in the magician and a sudden grin transformed his previously thoughtful features.

"Looks like you have yourself the dubious honour of counting Thieves amongst your acquaintance." Cery sobered a little as he held the black stare determinedly, but with no small effort. "Which, I may say, is not an honour to be sniffed at; no Thief offers their services lightly, but stick to your end of the bargain, and you'll not find a more loyal employee anywhere in the Allied Lands."

A smile tugged at the corner of Akkarin's mouth. "I don't doubt it," he said in a low, serious voice. He held out a long-fingered hand and Cery took it firmly, shaking it once.

"I am sorry if I startled you in there," the High Lord said with a slight grin, " but I had to prove myself quickly and beyond doubt. I guessed that a display of my power would impress on them more than a thousand fine words ever could."

Cery laughed softly, his teeth flashing. "Ah, you guessed correctly- you understand us well already. Anyway, no rub – I knew you'd have to do something like that." Cery raised his eyebrows and whistled softly. "Impressive though; that was just an illusion? I thought for all the world that we were about to be swept away into that vortex!"

Akkarin smiled wryly. "There is a saying- _never thank a magician for a gift until you have it in your hands. _Even the most elaborate of presents may be nothing more than thin air. Now," he said briskly, "let us go over once more the channels of communication." He then cocked an eyebrow knowingly at Cery. "I do not want to be here all night; I believe I have a certain Acceptance Ceremony to attend tomorrow..."

* * *

Akkarin's dark eyes narrowed and he ran his fingertips thoughtfully across his lips.

"I will obey you Lord Rothen." The high-pitched voice of Sonea rang clear and true, despite the wary look in her dark brown eyes. The High Lord pondered the words that the novices had spoken. Over the last years he was beginning to understand the code that the dwells lived by, and the importance of adhering to it if you were to thrive and survive. Having this new-found knowledge, Akkarin guessed that the vows the novices below had just taken were the most sincerely heartfelt by the slum girl.

As she moved to make way for the next novice, Akkarin examined her more closely. He had not seen her for nearly five months – not since the day of her guardianship hearing when she had appeared pale, thin and fearful. The High Lord tilted his head in consideration; Rothen had been working hard with the girl – that much was obvious. Like most Kyralians, she was pale, but there was a healthier tint to her blanched complexion. She still looked fragile however, despite the improved quantity and quality of the food he hoped Rothen was ensuring she ate.

Akkarin tentatively cast out his mind to gauge the upper most thoughts of the hall's occupants; the overwhelming emotions were suspicion and contempt for the girl. He was in no doubt that Sonea's existence at the Guild would not be an easy one. Akkarin contemplated her physical appearance again. The smooth hollows of her cheeks accentuated the fullness of her mouth and the width of her dark brown eyes, and her growing hair now bounced defiantly around her shoulders like a dark cloud, despite her obvious efforts to tame it.

A faint smile pulled at Akkarin's mouth. The fates seem to have granted the girl some small advantage at least; it would have suited her dissenters well if she fulfilled the rough and unattractive image that most Guild members had of a slum girl. She was less preened and polished than the girls around her certainly, but no-one would call her unattractive, and it absurdly pleased Akkarin that she was defying expectations of her from the outset. This girl may well have offered a more interesting challenge as a novice if the High Lord had been in a position to become a guardian; but he was not, and the thought of having such added complications to his life made him inwardly shudder.

Akkarin's gaze now flitted with casual interest over the other novices. Garrel's nephew, Regin, also exuded a detectable wealth of magical power; little wonder that he had been quickly taken by his uncle as a novice before any other magician realised his latent potential. As Akkarin regarded the boy, he noticed the scathing glances he threw at Sonea who stood nearby. There was something in the looks he gave that held more than the vague dislike that could be seen in most people's faces. The High Lord's mouth tightened in a hard line as he recalled Cery's plea for his friend's happiness.

_That may prove elusive for quite some time, _he thought as his eyes flickered back to Sonea as she stood pulling at the collar of her dress again. Akkarin suddenly noticed the proud and wilful tilt to her chin. _She may have to fight hard to prove herself, but maybe her fragile exterior disguises her true strength, _he mused.

"I now declare this Acceptance Ceremony concluded." Lorlen's magically enhanced voice boomed, startling Sonea. Noticing, Akkarin smiled to himself; the girl should get used to surprises – there were likely to be many along the way, the greatest ones coming from herself.

"Ah, what an adventure. I envy them the next few years, " Akkarin murmured wistfully as he stood next to Lorlen a few minutes later, his arms folded across his chest as he observed the happy and smiling faces before him. He turned to his blue-robed friend.

"Do you remember some of the things we got up to as novices Lorlen?" Akkarin asked, suppressing a rare grin. "Let us hope that these young people are more conformist – for our sakes." Lorlen looked at him sharply.

"Are you referring to Sonea? Many are waiting to see how well she will adjust." Lorlen said, and he frowned as he looked to where she stood with Rothen and Dannyl.

"No, I wasn't thinking of her in particular," Akkarin replied darkly as he glanced at Regin. Lorlen was oblivious to his friend's words as he continued to stare intently at Sonea, his brow furrowed in a deep frown. Akkarin followed his gaze.

"Lorlen? She is nothing you cannot handle surely? Why so concerned?" The High Lord said in bemusement, then he leaned back slightly and viewed his friend appraisingly, his dark eyes narrowing. "You do not share the same absurd prejudices about the girl as some, surely Lorlen?" There was an acerbic tone of disapproval to Akkarin's voice.

"Of course not!" Lorlen exclaimed indignantly. "No, I am more concerned _for _her than _about_ her. She will not receive a warm welcome from her classmates, I fear."

A memory of a rain-drenched, blood-smeared face flashed across Akkarin's mind. "Oh, I would not worry too much my friend; I have a feeling that Sonea can more than adequately look after herself," Akkarin muttered quietly as an unreadable expression settled over his features.

"Of course; I'm sure she can." Lorlen forced a smile, though as his eyes flickered to Sonea, a faint line still creased his brow. "Now," he said briskly, drawing in a sharp breath, "we had best do what is expected of us and go and mingle with the great and the good of Imardin society." Lorlen glanced at the High Lord. "Coming?" he asked before striding away towards the milling crowd of magicians, novices and their families.

Akkarin stared contemplatively at the back of his friend as he engaged a richly dressed couple and their daughter in conversation. Akkarin had never known Lorlen to be overly interested in any particular novice before, not even in his own cousins who had passed through the Guild in recent years. That his friend should display such obvious concern for Sonea seemed odd, but then, Lorlen had seemed generally unsettled of late and Akkarin had seen less of him than usual. A grimace pulled at Akkarin's mouth.

_He works too hard – he should delegate more to Osen, but then, he does not trust anyone to do things to his satisfaction, _Akkarin thought, recalling the frequent jibes Lorlen received as a novice for his perfectionist nature. And yet... there was something else that was different about Lorlen recently. His relaxed easiness with Akkarin had been replaced with an almost stiff politeness, as if Lorlen was forcing himself to play a part. Also, at times, Akkarin fancied that he detected conscious barriers in Lorlen's mind, as if he was trying to conceal his thoughts. Akkarin had never confirmed it to be true, but he knew that Lorlen suspected his unusual gift for reading the surface thoughts of unknowing minds.

Akkarin had found himself more tempted to read Lorlen's mind in the last few months than in all the time he had previously known him. The rational part of Akkarin's mind demanded he analyse Lorlen's strange behaviour, but another, stronger part, reacted violently against the idea. Shaking his dark head to dispel such uncomfortable stirrings of intuition, Akkarin followed his friend into the crowd, the gathered people standing back to make way for the tall figure of their High Lord. He resolutely buried the small inner voice that nagged at him warningly...

..._what if the unthinkable had happened? What if Lorlen suspects?..._

**_A/N: Thanks for reading. Things will obviously get more interesting when Sonea becomes Akkarin's novice. Please review! Merry Christmas!_**


	10. Chapter9 The Pros and Cons of Friendship

**Chapter 9 - The pros and cons of Friendship**

"Looking for something?" Akkarin asked with a mildness that did not deceive the young man who spun suddenly to face the Guild magician that stepped out of a shadowed corner of the room. Words that were unmistakably an oath, though they were spoken in a foreign tongue, came harshly from the younger, dark-skinned man's lips as the hum of a magical shield sprang to life and subtly charged the air of the small stay-house bedroom. The amber eyes that regarded Akkarin with dread widened in sudden recognition, and the High Lord's lips curled in a humorless smile as he brought his hands from beneath the folds of his shabby cloak. Akkarin glanced down as something glinted golden in the half light of the dimly lit room.

"Such craftsmanship and beauty in a thing that was only ever meant to kill; I always found that a strange thing," Akkarin mused, almost whimsically, as he turned the knife carefully in front of his face, the air whistling softly as it was sliced by the razor-sharpness of the blade. The High Lord's smile widened and became predatory as he took a step forwards and the young Sachakan man backed slowly away.

"You should take better care of your master's things, " Akkarin said with soft menace.

"I have no master! I have been freed," the Sachakan responded with proud indignation, though his eyes glinted with uncertainty and fear.

"Oh, come, come, " Akkarin laughed mockingly. "You do not really think that is the case do you? You have come, like a whipped dog, into the very heart of the Guild's stronghold, just as your master has bidden you to. You have been sent to your death," he stated coldly. "Do you really think that the Ichani would create another magician, another rival, if they were not certain that you would not return?" The High Lord fixed the young man with his dark, unbending stare; nevertheless, the Sachakan mustered all of his courage and hope and held the black, glittering gaze steadily.

"The Guild's stronghold?" The dark-skinned man sneered. "The Guild is weak!" He spat.

"Is that so?" Akkarin asked as his eyebrows rose in surprise at the momentary confidence in the man before him. "Then why have _you _been sent, like the others before you? Your master and the other Ichani are afraid of the Guild; they will not risk themselves – and with good reason. They send you to test us, stealthily and with no honour, like thieves in the night, and none of you ever return. What does that say to you? Tell me that."

Akkarin stepped threatenringly forwards again and regarded the youth intently. He noted the sickly hue of the man's face as it blanched of colour, and the rapid convulsions of his throat as he tried to swallow, his parched mouth betraying him. Suddenly, the Sachakan raised his hands and a white blaze of forcestrike shot across the room to find contact with Akkarin's shield. It dissipated over the magical barrier in a myriad of bright sparks of energy, appearing more like an artistic display than an attack. Akkarin looked on impassively, not moving a single step. The hollow sound of softly resonant laughter incongruously filled the room.

"Is that it?" The High Lord asked, still smiling humourlessly and raising an eyebrow as he narrowed the distance of charged air between them. The dark-skinned man's shield hissed as it found contact with the wall behind him, like some feeble alarm, warning that there was no escape that way. The Sachakan's amber eyes darkened with dread, their bright russet colour blotted out by the blackness of dilated pupils. He desperately raised both hands and sent out a clumsy volley of inexperienced strikes. Once more they harmlessly rebounded off Akkarin's impenetrable shield, instead noisily colliding into chairs and smashing into the walls of the small room. The Guild magician frowned at the sounds of destruction; it would certainly make things more complicated if the other guests came to investigate the source of the commotion that resonated through the floorboards of the upstairs sleeping quarters.

"Let us finish this, shall we?" Akkarin muttered. It was a statement and not a question and the magician did not wait for a reply but, without moving a muscle, he hurtled invisible strikes at the Sachakan and completely obliterated his shield. Blind terror overcame all reason and the ex-slave leapt at Akkarin, passing through the sweep of the High Lord's shield with a faint crackle of energy, and he brought a small, short-bladed dagger from beneath the belt of his trousers. He sheared the small blade upwards towards the High Lord's face.

For an instant Akkarin was startled, ready, as he always was, for a magical battle, but taken aback by this sudden physical assault. Then, so fast that the other man did not even see it coming, he whipped the wickedly curved Sachakan blade he had found upwards, deflecting the other man's short dagger easily and cleaving onwards, shearing through chest and shoulder, biting to the bone.

The young Sachakan's expression froze in one of raw shock, adrenalin blocking the pain as yet, but his consciousness understanding with exploding clarity the travesty of the wound sustained by its physical self. The ex-slave swayed, dropping his knife with a dull clang on the hard floor; he staggered back against the wall, his face now grey as all blood drained from it, seeming to treacherously re-route its flow to the deep crescent-shaped gash in his chest, pumping like a crimson fountain and so perversely hastening his death.

As the Sachakan sagged to his knees ,Akkarin - himself wide-eyed - grabbed at him, holding him upright. The High Lord studied the face with rising bile; it was younger than he thought – no more than seventeen or eighteen. Akkarin's stomach lurched violently, sickened as he felt another sliver of his soul cry out piercingly and in vain, before dulling to a whimper and then merging itself into the dark, gaping silence that grew inside him; always expanding and utterly devoid of light - of anything. One day, Akkarin knew that the cavernous blackness would swallow him completely and that he would not even recall how he had come to find himself in the utter darkness, with no spark of warming light to re-ignite his lost soul. He knew he would soon be beyond redemption and that nothing, and no-one, could save him, so incapable he felt of forming new emotion; his purpose had one sole focus now – to save the Guild from the Ichani, and he had lain himself on the altar in sacrifice.

An implacable wave of impotent anger washed over Akkarin, and when he spoke his voice was laced with fury and barely under control. As he felt the life ebb away from the body he still held, his dark gaze blazed into the barely open eyes of the Sachakan.

"Kariko," the High Lord hissed to the man he guessed was watching by virtue of the blood gem he had noticed on the boy's hand. "If you want a reckoning with me, you'd be well advised to do the deed yourself, instead of sending children in your place!" And with that, Akkarin placed his free hand over the bloody wound, and the slaves eyes glazed over with the veil of death. Akkarin lowered him gently to lie on the dirty floor of the bedroom. The magician straightened, black and brooding and towering over the dead boy. There was a faint knock at the door but Akkarin did not move, though the door opened with a soft click at his will.

"Ceryni," he murmured flatly without turning or taking his eyes off the fallen Sachakan. "You rarely undertake this work yourself. Were all your men engaged elsewhere?"

The shorter figure of the Thief hesitantly entered the room, closing the door quietly behind him and he smiled grimly as he glanced towards the body at Akkarin's feet.

"No," he answered. "But your work is rarely carried out in such a public place. When I got the message that this is where you planned to carry out the deed, and when, I thought that I'd better oversee this one myself." Cery grimaced and looked as critical as he dare at the High Lord. "There is a guest room full of Imardians below us – all drunk, or well on their way to being- thanks to my men and the well-stocked bar. The expense of the bol will cost you extra; takes alot to take down a room full of dwells you know!" Cery added dryly in an attempt to lighten the mood. Akkarin still did not face him, but Cery fancied that the High Lord smiled, though he could not be sure.

Cery continued to hover uncertainly near the door, waiting for a sign; then Akkarin abruptly stooped and wiped his bloodied hand on the dead boy's outer garments before taking a lifeless hand and removing the red-gemmed ring. Placing it on the floor, he crushed the stone to red powder with the heel of his boot. Cery's eyebrows rose.

"They sure don't make rubies like they used to, that's for sure," the shorter man said sarcastically. Akkarin turned, finally, to face him and Cery saw for himself the grim half-smile that did nothing to soften the magician's hard features. As on the few other occasions that Cery had seen Akkarin, he felt himself inwardly shudder at what he glimpsed in the dark glitter of the Guild leader's eyes. Cery had seen a similar inner fire in the eyes of a few other men – men who had seen such things in life that they yearned for death, and had, on occasion sought its release. Though the Thief wondered at times what had been the kindling for hell-fire in Akkarin's inscrutable glare, he did not consider it too deeply; after all this man led the Guild of which Sonea was now a member.

"Good work Ceryni." Akkarin's deep voice brought Cery back to the moment. "Though from the amount of murders, I guess that another one may have entered the City recently." He glanced at the dead boy. "I have seen the liaising magician's report on the murders – until this last week, the killings were very opportunistic, and the victims carried little magical power." He glanced back at the boy, his gaze unfathomable.

"He was weak and... very young," he added with barely concealed anger. "I'll leave you to dispose of him," Akkarin paused, "and again – my thanks; not one of the bodies has been found since I employed you. I knew it was a wise decision." He grimaced with an unpleasant memory. "You should have seen who I was forced to work with before."

"We may be many things, but you'll not find anyone who will deny that we are not the best at what we do," Cery said, a lilt of pride in his voice. Akkarin raised his eyebrows.

"Indeed," he stated concurringly as he glided to the door, Cery standing back to let him pass.

"My...my Lord?" Cery spoke somewhat awkwardly. The High Lord stopped with a hand on the door frame and turned to Cery, fixing him with a patient stare. Cery swallowed, the confident Thief swiftly replaced by an embarrassed youth. "Erm...I haven't had the chance to see Sonea for a while; I just wondered...not that you'd take much interest, but maybe you've heard...err," Cery floundered beneath the formidable gaze. "How is she? Is she well? Has she settled into classes?" The questions finally escaped in a rush.

Akkarin smiled faintly, and not unkindly, and opened his mouth as if to speak, before pursing his lips in consideration. After a moment he spoke.

"As you may expect, she has not been welcomed warmly by _all_ of her fellow novices. Things have been made... difficult for her at times," and the High Lord tilted his head as if amused . "But by all accounts, she handles herself admirably. I am sure that she will gain their respect given time and determination."

Cery grinned. "Well, that's one thing Sonea is not short of, though Jonna – her aunt – would call it stubbornness!" He smiled and then snorted at some recollection of his and Soneas' past life together. Akkarin regarded him, his black eyes sparkling.

"Yes, well, I should get back. Thankyou – again, "and Akkarin extended his hand in an impulsive, but sincere, gesture of gratitude to the young man.

"No rub," Cery responded, grasping the proffered hand, a slightly embarrassed expression playing across his face, though he detected no condescension in the magician's appreciation of his services. Suddenly the door opened and Akkarin strode briskly over the threshold before pausing and glancing back with a contemplative look on his face.

"Ceryni?"

"Yes?"

Akkarin drummed a long finger on the wood of the door frame, a faint line puckering his brow. "Visit Sonea. I think she will appreciate it - everybody needs a friend," he added. The young Thief nodded slowly in response.

"Thanks – I'll see what I can do."

Akkarin inclined his head once, the corner of his mouth pulling upwards in the ghost of a half-smile, though he said nothing more. Drawing the threadbare cloak tightly around him, he quickly strode down the corridor, effortlessly blending into the shadows.

* * *

Akkarin heard the outer door to his residence close behind the Administrator's departing figure, and with it the High Lord sighed heavily. Shutting his eyes, he brought his hand to his face, rubbing across the pale skin of his furrowed brow. As he opened his eyes they met the half full wine glass that Lorlen had discarded on a low table as he had made a forced excuse to leave; to escape.

_Yes, to escape, _Akkarin thought, his eyes narrowing. _That is what it felt like – he was escaping from my presence. _He moved to the window and, peering into the darkness, he could just make out Lorlen's blue robes as he retreated back to the safety of the University. Akkarin stared intently until the distant figure vanished. An increasingly familiar feeling crept upon him; a sense of foreboding coupled with a formless prescience of fear. What had Lorlen said again that had so suddenly spiked his friend's suspicions?

..._I never had the opportunity to travel...I don't suppose you kept a diary?..._

Why Lorlen's sudden interest in Akkarin's journey after all these years? The High Lord may have taken it to be an innocent enough request in isolation, but in conjunction with the Administrator's strange evasiveness these past months and his noticeable tenseness when he did see his friend, Akkarin felt the worm of suspicion that had begun to grow inside him finally coil itself tightly around his gut until it could no longer be ignored.

For a long time Akkarin stood silently motionless at the window, with not even a globe light to alleviate the darkness that settled on the room around him. In the gardens below, nothing moved and the inky sky seemed to loom ominously and chillingly close, so that it felt as if only the thin pane of glass prevented its darkness from crashing down upon him. Something whispered within him; like the faint breath of a wind that had come to disturb an utterly still day, forewarning of a storm to come.

Lorlen – his closest friend – suspected him of wrong-doing, and Akkarin knew a day that he had long dreaded was on the fast approaching horizon. He sensed that Lorlen, whilst fearful, had not consulted others, nor had made a move against him. A grim and infinitely sad smile touched Akkarin's lips; Lorlen too was reluctant to cement in place the intangible barrier that had come between the two friends.

_I have a little time perhaps; enough to try and find out for certain what Lorlen knows - and how. _A grimace twisted the High Lord's face as he thought to himself. _And without the need to fully read his mind – that would be the ultimate betrayal. _A dark fury fell on him and he swept away from the window suddenly and swiped at the two discarded glasses, sending them crashing to the ground. He stood rigid, his jaw clenching as he stared fixedly at the broken shards of glass and the blood-red wine that pooled about them, slowly seeping into the joints of the flag-stoned floor.

"Damn you Lorlen," he seethed softly between his teeth. "What have you found out, and what are you going to do about it?" Abruptly the anger abated and the square set of his shoulders slumped a little. Akkarin fell into one of the chairs and continued to gaze unblinkingly at the broken glass, the pale rays of the rising moon outside casting enough light to trace the glistening path of a single tear as it made its way down his cheek.

And so Takan found him a short time later as he came into the room holding up a lantern, and with a look of concern etched on his face.

"Master?" he enquired anxiously as he saw Akkarin's unmoving repose in the chair, his eyes closed though he did not sleep. The servant's golden eyes flitted to the broken glass that he had heard shatter. "Is anything amiss?"

Akkarin opened his eyes and raised his head, and beyond the practised mask of indifference, Takan momentarily caught sight of such a profound sadness that it hurt to behold it – then, it was gone.

"Takan," Akkarin said in a voice as cold as ice, "We may have a problem..."

* * *

Akkarin leaned against the cold stone wall of the narrow passageway. Did he really want to do this, he pondered; snoop and pry amongst his friends papers and possessions? He slowly closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He could not bear to think of the alternative – not yet anyway.

He opened his eyes and resolved to enter Lorlen's office. He needed try and find some indication of what Lorlen knew about his activities – if he had recognised them for what they were ,and whether he had told anyone else. At that moment a noise beyond the wall made Akkarin stop in his tracks. The High Lord placed his eye to the secreted spy-hole and he saw Lorlen – he was there!

Akkarin watched as the Administrator took a letter from a secure box, frowning as he read the contents. As Lorlen sat back in his chair and sighed, the watching High Lord decided to pay his friend a visit anyway – by the more conventional means of knocking on the office's main door. Something in Lorlen's worried features made Akkarin want to read the letter in his friend's hand; made him want to read it very much indeed.

The High Lord turned briskly away from the concealed entrance to the office, and swept down the dusty passageway, his black robes billowing about him and creating a swirling breeze in his wake. He entered the corridor just beyond Lorlen's office through another concealed door. As Lorlen searched for the source of the sudden chill that had breathed through his office, Akkarin paused outside, his clenched hand hovering a fingers-breadth from the door. After a moment's hesitation, Akkarin drew in a short and resolute breath and then rapped tersely on the wood...

* * *

..."Good night Lorlen. You will get some rest won't you? You look exhausted."

"Yes. Good night Akkarin."

As Lorlen closed the door, Akkarin let a soft sigh escape his lips. The letter was from Lord Dannyl; Akkarin had recognised the neat hand and had glimpsed the signature. Though LOrlen had appeared casual, he had clearly wanted the document out of his friend's sight. Recalling where Lorlen had placed the secure box, Akkarin silently approached the entrance to the secret passageway and passed through like a ghost in the night. He would wait for Lorlen to leave, and then he would find out exactly what his friend had to hide...

* * *

From where he stood at a ground floor window of the University, Akkarin watched as a diminutive, brown-robed figure made its way from the gardens across to the novice quarters , where a stern-faced magician waited, his arms crossed.

Even from his removed vantage point, the High Lord could clearly perceive the reluctance in every step that Sonea took; as if her feet could not comprehend the command from nerve and sinew to bear their owner back to such a miserable existence, and away from her friend. A remote smile curved his lips as Akkarin turned his gaze on the short, slightly squat, figure of the young man that stood by a stone bench watching Sonea's departure, transfixed. Ceryni. Akkarin's head tilted in unexpected satisfaction.

As Sonea neared the novice quarters, Cery called softly to her; not loud enough for Lord Ahrind to hear, but Akkarin, with his senses focused acutely on the pair, heard every word as if they were whispered into his ear.

"And tell that boy I'll break his arms if he doesn't leave you alone," the young Thief said with an edge that left the High Lord in no doubt that he meant every word. The Guild leader watched as Sonea turned back to Cery. Akkarin noticed her hair had grown, and that it brushed her shoulders like ragged, black silk, shot with auburn. Her fine, and usually solemn, features became transformed as her lips slowly curled into the sort of smile that transformed a person's features. Akkarin frowned as something flickered for an instant within him; like the desperate fluttering of a tiny bird with a broken wing. He could not place the feeling, and quickly dismissed it. The girl's attention was still on her friend.

"I'll do it myself," she replied, " if he pushes me far enough. By mistake, of course."

A soft chuckle escaped Akkarin's lips. "I do not doubt it Sonea – not for a moment," he murmured to himself. He turned then, a smile still softening the hard line of his mouth.

"You may look fragile Sonea," he continued in a whisper, "but your previous life has made you strong." Despite his words, the High Lord resolved to take a greater interest in the boy, Regin.

As he strode down the corridor,there was an uncustomary lightness in Akkarin's step.

"Oh, I think you will survive here very well – very well indeed..."

**A/N: A bit fragmented this one, but hey-ho, that's how it turned out. I could have re-wrote, but that would have been a further delay in posting!Thanks for reading, and any reviews would be appreciated as usual! Thanks to my guest reviewers, as I can't do it personally - oh, and Happy New Year (a bit late, I know!)**


	11. Chapter 10 Realisation

**Chapter 10 – Realisation**

"She did what?!" King Merin spluttered, his eyes wide as he began to cough, the wine he was drinking catching in his throat. As if from nowhere, a servant appeared bearing a glass of water but the king waved him away irritably, instead taking another slug of wine. Akkarin raised an eyebrow and then studied the dancing couples on the floor in front of him with cool disinterest.

"Yes, her strength is impressive, but strength is nothing without skill." Akkarin seemed to muse to himself despite the esteemed companion beside him. "Even the Higher Magicians cannot deny her power now, though most see it as a threat." Akkarin smiled grimly at the irony of fate; that the greatest raw talent the Guild had seen in many years had come from the Slums.

"But to assault her fellow novices in such a way - " Merin's brow knotted with concern . "I was pleased when she chose to stay at the Guild, if only to quieten the social do-gooders at court, but maybe I was wrong to think the Guild could manage her," and he sighed ruefully.

Akkarin glanced up sharply. "Do not be too quick to judge her. Many would say that she was more than justified in her actions. Indeed, _some_ might say she would have been within her rights to have dealt out a great deal more." The High Lord's lips twitched. "Some would also say that she showed great innovativeness..."

"Oh?" The king's brows rose in enquiry and his emerald eyes twinkled with interest. Akkarin held the king's keen gaze and took a sip of wine, knowing he had a tale to tell.

"Yes, Regin and his cohorts got away lightly – if you'll pardon the pun..."

* * *

A short while later the king sat, a hand bracing his stomach as he chuckled uncontrollably; many of the passing revellers throwing him and Akkarin quizzical looks. Akkarin lounged back casually in his chair, his long legs spread out before him, shrouded in his black robes. He studied Merin intently as he himself pursed his mouth tightly in a suppressed smile.

"Ah..." Merin gasped as he took a hold of his mirth. " I knew that girl would shake things up a little; she is a genius"

"And incredibly strong for her age; to withstand the novices' initial, combined attack..." Akkarin trailed off, his features sobering.

"Yes," the king said, his apprehensive expression now mirroring his friend's. "I can imagine how it went down with Garrel; not only was his nephew humiliated and shown to be a bully, but he has inadvertently forced the slum girl into revealing her true strength."

"Sonea," Akkarin stated with almost undetectable irritated tolerance. "Her name is Sonea."

"Sonea...yes," Merin responded distractedly, his thoughts elsewhere. Abruptly his bright eyes snapped into focus. "Well," he said slapping his thigh," you have certainly made this court dance more interesting – you should come more often," he said, inclining his head hopefully towards his friend.

"Yes, well, I have my reasons for avoiding them ..." Akkarin began before, as if on cue, a shrill voice called from somewhere behind him.

"Akkarin! _Akkarin!"_

The High Lord glanced over his shoulder and immediately straightened, his demeanour emanating an abrupt tenseness. He leaned forwards conspiratorially towards Merin.

"One of them being my mother..." he muttered grimly under his breath before rising from his chair and turning to face the stern-faced woman who approached, cleaving her way through the disgruntled looking dancers on the floor.

"Akkarin!" The woman spoke in a tone reminiscent of a parent berating its disobedient child. She was tall, though her son still towered over her, and there were streaks of grey threaded through her intricately arranged and bejewelled hair.

"Mother." Akkarin's mouth pulled into a forced smile and he inclined his head, as even the High Lord was expected to do when greeted by his venerable mother.

"High Lord." She responded magnanimously as she dipped a small courtesy, as even a mother was expected to do when her son was the High Lord of the Magicians Guild. The woman's face then paled a little as she recognised the seated figure who suddenly rose from its previously obscured position behind Akkarin. This time she dropped into a full courtesy, sweeping down theatrically and rather preposterously for a woman of her age. Merin stepped forwards, bending and taking her hand to raise her.

"Lady Liessa. How delightful to see you." The king's gaze shifted behind her, his eyes flitting hopefully across the merry-makers. "Is your daughter with you this evening?" he asked still scanning the crowd.

Liessa's dark eyes sharpened. "Indeed your majesty; both of them, though I'd wager it's Camilya that is the subject of your enquiry," and she tilted her head, shooting a coy look at the king that only the mother of a courted girl dare. The king played the part of bashful suitor in his turn, and lowered his gaze courteously.

"Both of your daughters are delightful, but I confess that it is Lady Camilya that has caught my especial interest." Merin looked up keenly, his bright green gaze intent and silently leaving Liessa in no doubt as to who had the upper hand in this courtly charade.

"Where can I find her?" Merin continued though his fixed smile did not quite reach his smile. He would never admit to such things, but he did not have the liking that his father had once had for the Lady Delvon and her husband.

Liessa lowered her head in acquiescence, not only of the question, but also to the king's superior claim on her daughter –_ if_ he so wished it.

"I left her a while ago in the rose garden, though I know that Lord Beno has requested the next turn with her." Liessa gently reminding Merin that he had best not delay too long in declaring his motives towards her daughter – there were others who had tentatively expressed their interest in Camilya also.

The king was unperturbed. "Then I will not delay in finding her; I will not risk there being no turns left for me!" And with a slight nod of his head to both mother and son, he turned on his heel and made purposefully for the colonnaded doors that led to the palace gardens, leaving a swath of bowing heads and bent knees in his wake.

Liessa's gaze followed him, shrewd and calculating but lacking the smug satisfaction that Akkarin would have expected given the king's increasingly clear purpose towards her daughter. The High Lord's eyes narrowed as he regarded his mother. She had never been a demonstrative parent – her son and two daughters receiving more tenderness and care from their nursemaid. Nevertheless, Akkarin had always assumed that Liessa loved her children, as was the natural way of things, but as he grew into adulthood he admitted to himself that his mother had never given him, or his sisters, reason to believe that this was indeed true.

The three siblings were lavished and preened in every possible way by their parents, except in that most important of all commodities – love. Instead they had seemingly been bred to provide valuable pawns in a courtly game of political intrigue and power; a game that had been played by the Delvons for generations, and one in which they had gained much influence over the royal house, though it had cost them dearly in ways that could not be measured in gold.

The current Lord and Lady Delvon were acutely aware that the young king was not as ready to lend an ear to their whispered suggestions as his father had been; but Akkarin had always been close to Merin, and now their youngest daughter was courted by him. Liessa and her husband were certainly ruthless enough to use their children in every possible way to their own advantage, and with little regard for their son and daughters' happiness.

When Akkarin had been made High Lord, the gamble of letting their only son join the Guild had paid off; he was now not only the king's friend, but also his greatest political ally. A son who could use his position to bring them greater influence and favour - or so they had thought. Akkarin had always been irked by his parent's manipulation and, once free of the constraints of the Houses and Court, he had used his time at the university to its full advantage, becoming learned, skilful and ambitious in his own right. The strong magical power that had been detected in him as a child - the only reason his parents had agreed to his removal to the Guild - more than fulfilling its potential. His parents, however, had held little sway on Akkarin over the last years, and that had left a bitter taste in Liessa's mouth.

Akkarin now narrowed his eyes as he took in his mother's features, and he was, he admitted to himself, a little nonplussed by her expression.

"Not pleased mother – that the king courts your daughter?" He asked slyly. Liessa stood unmoving at his side, gazing still at the king's retreating figure.

"Tobin would be better suited to his temperament than Camilya," she murmured to herself, but in answer to Akkarin's question. Akkarin let out a bark of sudden laughter.

"Tobin?!" He exclaimed incredulously, referring to his eldest sister. "Tobin is no more interested in being your spy than I am. _And_, for that matter, she is no more interested in playing the subservient wife than you have ever been!"

Liessa's jaw tightened but she still did not look at her son. "She is more intelligent than Camilya; she would be more useful. She is loyal to the family and she can be relied on to play her part where necessary," Liessa said stiffly with malignant satisfaction and she shot her son a meaningful glance; her contempt for what she considered to be the betrayal of his family was not lost on him.

Akkarin ignored the jibe, instead feeling the anger rise within him. "_Useful_!" He hissed. "Have you no shame? They are your _daughters_!"

Liessa glared up at her son, undaunted by his tall, imposing figure. "And what would you know - or care!? You have not thought of us since you joined the Guild! You may as well be the lowest ranking horse-healer for all the good your position has brought us!" She spat vehemently.

"Mother! You forget yourself! – And where you are!" Akkarin admonished quietly through gritted teeth and taking a step towards her, acutely aware of the glances they were now attracting. Despite his anger at his mother's words, Akkarin felt a twinge of guilt leap within him for the neglect he had shown his sisters in his desire to avoid his parent's machinations. He leaned in towards Liessa and spoke harshly.

"Now, was there a purpose to your seeking me out, or did you only wish to remind people that your son is the High Lord?"

Liessa, no more wanting to give the wrong impression than her son, took a steady breath to gather herself, smoothing the neat coils of her hair. She reached forwards and patted Akkarin on the arm in what she hoped appeared to be a gesture of fondness – the best she could muster. Her features, a thing she had more skill in manipulating at will, became all cloying smiles and smug pride.

"Do I need a reason to seek out my beloved son?" She simpered, louder than was necessary and was gratified by the knowing smiles that passed between the seemingly casual observers who had been poised to speed any rumour of a quarrel between the High Lord and his mother on to the court gossips. The shrewd Lady Delvon now ensured they witnessed only a proud mother fawning over her powerful son, and the on-lookers were willing to excuse Akkarin his apparent aloofness – after all, he had a reputation to uphold.

Akkarin stared down at his mother's hand on his arm with the curious bemusement of a child seeing something for the first time.

"What do you want Liessa?" He asked coldly, not fooled for a moment into thinking her little display was for his benefit. A faint crease pulled at her brow; Akkarin's habit of calling her by her birth name irked her and he knew it, and it was for that reason alone that he used it now, yet she remained composed.

"We have not come together as a family for some time, "she said in a perfunctory tone. "Given your youngest sister's imminent elevation in circumstances, I think we have things to discuss and consider. Your father is away at Davlin on business, but he should be back in two to three weeks. Shall we say the last freeday of this month – dinner, at the family residence? I _would_ let you play host, since your food is at the Guild expense, but I know that you keep that Sachakan as a cook; I couldn't possibly eat anything he had prepared" Liessa sniffed in haughty disgust.

Akkarin stiffened, the effort of maintaining a polite veneer in the face of his mother's barrage of contempt was beginning to take its toll. He gripped Liessa's elbow firmly and guided her towards a group of women across the room who he knew to be acquaintances of his mothers. He ignored Liessa's spluttered protests as he stalked across the hall taking her with him.

"I assure you that Takan is one of the finest cooks in all the Allied Lands – and beyond. As usual you let your prejudices blind you. You know nothing of Sachaka - or its people," he seethed.

_Or its people..._

_A face; sallow-skinned; amber-eyed; long, black, heavy hair. Lips, forming silent words as she glanced back and looked at him for the last time. Eyes; pleading. He strained to hear the words – her last - but couldn't, though he had long ago given sound to them . "Help me," the words in his mind said. "Please, help me." The knife; the blood – her blood._

Liessa's shrill voice impinged on his hearing as if from a great distance.

The waking nightmare continued mercilessly, unbidden.

_Treacherous mind, _he thought. _Cruel thoughts. Unforgiving heart._

Akkarin shook his head and buried the images deep, deep. His mother, oblivious to the onslaught playing out in her son's mind, prattled on. He collected himself - the aloof, stone-hearted High Lord everyone knew and...loved.

_ Loved_.

A grim, humourless smile curled his lips in spite of himself. Love was beyond him now. Forbidden – by himself. Somewhere inside him his soul heaved, surged in protest, but he quelled it with practised ease. His mind focused on the woman besides him. His mother; and even she could not love him.

"Oh, and after your travels to the Eye knows where, you do I suppose!" she retorted to his last comment. " Like you think you know everything! Well, let me tell you - you do not!"She retorted with vitriol. "And let me tell you something else..."

"Please do." Akkarin interjected dryly through clenched teeth.

"...I do not know my son since he returned from his travels – or much like him."

Akkarin arched a dark eyebrow, a black humour gripping him. "You never _much_ liked me before."

As they approached the group of women, both mother and son schooled their features into pleasantly disarming smiles.

"Ah, Lady Shimila; my mother has been looking for you. She wishes to discuss what she should serve at our forthcoming family dinner. Some three weeks away, yet she is already fussing about what delicacies will impress me most, given that my own cook surpasses all others."

The women shot Liessa sympathetic glances and Akkarin's smile widened in such a way that sent the hearts of the younger – and some of the older – women fluttering. He returned their gestures of deference with an inclination of his head; cool, aloof, yet effortlessly intriguing and beguiling.

"I am afraid that I have some Guild matters to attend to; magicians have no respect for our good king's birth-anniversary celebrations." Again the smile, the flash of neat, white teeth. In one hypnotic moment, the heated exchange the women could have sworn they had seen between mother and son was forgotten. Satisfied that he had sufficiently placated the gossips, Akkarin released his grip on his mother's arm.

"I will leave Lady Liessa in your capable hands ladies." And at those words from the High Lord, the women bobbed their most elegant courtesies. Liessa bit back her anger and glanced up sharply at Akkarin.

"Will we see you then – in three weeks ,as arranged?" She pushed for confirmation, knowing he would find it more difficult to refuse in front of company. Akkarin's eyes twinkled like the black diamonds hanging from his mother's ears.

"Of course mother – I look forward to it." And with that he turned on his heel, his tall, black figure gracefully moving through the brightly coloured dancers.

"Oh Liessa," one of the women sighed dreamily when he was out of earshot. "I am so glad he is not married yet. It means there is still hope that one of us may snare him." The younger girls dissolved into fits of tinkling laughter.

"Oh," Liessa said cooly with a look of surprised disdain. "You think you can manage what the beauty, intellect and position of the Lady Alya could not," she said in reference to the king's cousin who had once had a brief dalliance with Akkarin, though Alya had fervently wished for more. "I admire you ambition," Liessa continued sneeringly. "I do not think that anyone will _snare _my son; he will marry when he, and no-one else, is ready – and to whom he chooses." Liessa sighed heavily in a rare display of weakness as she glanced back in the direction Akkarin had gone.

"Believe me; I know that better than anyone..."

* * *

"Thankyou, Jerrick, for informing me. I trust that the novice, Regin, has been appropriately dealt with, and that Lord Jullen's inkwell came to no harm - Elyne and very valuable I seem to recall.?" Akkarin and the director stood on the courtyard steps of the university where Jerrick had accosted the High Lord on his way back to his residence.

"Indeed it is; but yes, it's quite safe High Lord. As for the boy - a list of dreary chores that should keep him busy until the first rains of spring." Jerrick's usually sour face pulled into an unmistakable smirk.

"Lord Garrel was not very amused – more with the fact that Regin had been caught out, than with the actual misdemeanour itself I think. Nevertheless, trying to frame another student as a thief... Regin is not the only novice to harbour certain uncharitable feeling towards our little street urchin, but few will admire his underhand vindictiveness." Jerrick's brow lowered in his more customary scowl before continuing.

"It also brings into question her guilt over the theft of Narron's pen a while ago. Some would even say it exonerates her," and the director chanced a glance up at Akkarin to quickly gauge his reaction to such a suggestion.

"Indeed," the High Lord stated levelly, giving nothing away. "And there are some who doubted her guilt in the first place," Akkarin added cryptically. Jerrick looked sharply up at the Guild leader but Akkarin's expression continued to be unreadable.

Jerrick cleared his throat, becoming slightly self conscious in the lone presence of the High Lord, who seemed to imbibe the air about him with unapproachable, if patient, authority. Jerrick wondered, not for the first time, how such a young man had cultivated such a formidable magnetism. The director sensed the High Lord's impatience to be gone; Akkarin was always perfunctory, though thorough, with his colleagues – except for Lorlen of course- though Jerrick had noticed that the two had not been seen in each other's company much lately.

"Are you venturing into the night room this evening High Lord?" Jerrick enquired whilst already knowing the answer.

"No, I don't think so director," and Akkarin smiled faintly.

"I'll bid you goodnight then," Jerrick said, bowing before moving down the steps, and then off across the courtyard in the direction of the Seven Arches. Akkarin stood still and watched him go, contemplating what Jerrick had told him.

Privately, he had questioned Sonea's guilt in the pen incident, but had kept his thoughts to himself. The girl had no reason to steal now that all her needs were met by the Guild. Why would such a, by all accounts, intelligent girl jeopardise her newly acquired, promising future for such a trifling thing? It seemed likely to Akkarin that her fellow novices had set her up to cement her reputation as untrustworthy, but she had failed to accuse them, and so no truth read to confirm her innocence could be performed. Akkarin had wondered at that, but suspected that it was pride on her part.

He shook his head. Akkarin thought that he had banished his preoccupation with this girl, yet here he was, delaying his evening meal to ponder her again. The mystery of the elusive occasion when Akkarin had sensed Sonea's presence still strummed at the back of his mind, like a repeating and irritating half-recalled melody that refused to give itself up in its entirety.

Akkarin's mouth pulled in a hard line and he tucked a wayward strand of hair behind his ear and strode slowly down the university steps. Just as he entered the gardens to take the path that led to his residence, something fluttered on the edge of his consciousness; like a moth, its wings softly tapping at the glass in desperation to reach the glow of a candle inside; but the window remaining shut and unyielding, refusing admittance to the light it craved.

The High Lord abruptly stopped in his tracks and turned back to the edge of the courtyard, his black form obscured by the failing light and creeping shadows of the surrounding trees. Still as stone, he watched as the diminutive figure of Sonea emerged from the novice quarters and walked, head down and quickly, towards the magicians quarters opposite. She was completely oblivious to her silent watcher as she hurried to Rothen's quarters to dine with the alchemist and his son on the eve of Dorrien's departure.

The courtyard and its surroundings were empty and desolate, the university's inhabitants having retired to their rooms, or still occupied in the food-hall. Sonea was unaccompanied; alone. To Akkarin's heightened and honed senses her powerful magical aura emanated from her with crystal clarity; its purity undiluted by the presence of other magicians.

_Just like that other night some months ago. _

The puzzle piece slotted neatly into place in Akkarin's mind, and it stared mockingly at him as if asking him why it had taken him so long to find it.

_That night. Of course!_

That other night when he had sensed a foreign magical presence impinging on his mind, unadulterated as it was in that inner sanctum of his residence; a place and a time when there were no other magicians in the immediate vicinity – except himself of course – and Takan, whose magic had never been released.

Akkarin had avoided Sonea since she had been brought to the Guild, and had certainly never been in her solitary presence. Now that he was, the realisation of where he had detected her magical aura before came crashing down on him.

The blood drained from his face and he stood there, motionless; his face ghostly as the rest of his figure became rapidly swallowed up by the enclosing darkness of the night about him. The pieces of the puzzle became jumbled in his mind, rearranging themselves until a picture of events emerged that made his stomach churn and his mouth feel like parchment.

_It couldn't be possible she saw...but how? – She wasn't in the room. How could she have seen...?_

And yet, Lorlen's strange and tense behaviour towards Akkarin had begun the day he read Sonea's mind. Almost immediately he had fled from the Guildhall; claiming not to have heard his friend's calls; claiming to have a headache.

_Sonea was there - that night. Lorlen has been hiding something ever since he saw the girl's thoughts. The research he has asked Dannyl to carry out. No coincidence surely?_

_No coincidence._

Lorlen _had _seen something in Sonea's mind, and now that Akkarin had drudged up the missing piece of the puzzle from the depths of his memory, he could guess with some confidence at what that something was.

_That night. I knew! I knew..._

"_The fight has weakened me..."_He had said to Takan after a struggle in the city with an uncommonly strong Sachakan slave. As he had taken power from his servant, something had prickled at his senses and he had been sure there was someone just beyond the walls of his underground room.

_Sonea, _he thought grimly. _It was Sonea I felt._

He'd cast a thread of power outwards to identify the source, but in the next moment it had gone. It had left him uneasy at the time and with the distinct feeling that he had been watched, but Takan had reassured him soothingly, dousing his fears and saying it was exhaustion that played tricks on his mind.

Now, as Akkarin watched Sonea disappear into the magicians quarters, he felt the searing lick of flames crawl up his spine as the embers of his fear sprang ferociously to life once more. The fire gathered strength and wrapped around him until he felt engulfed in a blaze of black fury. Burning hot, then icy cold - then hot again. His hands balled into fists at his side; his nails biting livid crescents into the soft flesh of his palms.

What had she seen exactly – and how? Did she realise what she may have witnessed? Akkarin thought not, but Lorlen would. Lorlen had been taught, like all Higher Magicians, to recognise the basics of black magic, and if he had seen Akkarin take power from Takan through Sonea's thoughts, he would know what he was witnessing.

_And he would condemn me for it, such has the fear and loathing for black magic become._ The thought crystallised in Akkarin's mind and he knew beyond doubt that, whatever Sonea's part in all this was - and he would find out- Lorlen had discovered his friend was a black magician.

Akkarin's chest began to heave with the effort of controlling the turmoil that raged within him. Despite himself however, reason began to reassert itself in his mind. He had not been confronted, and he had not noticed any odd behaviour in any others towards him.

_Lorlen has told no-one yet, _and for some reason, that thought saddened him; it was as if Lorlen did not what things to change beyond redemption between them any more than he did.

_But I must discover what Lorlen knows for certain - and how exactly. _

The confrontation with his closest friend could be delayed no longer.

"Damn stupid slum whore!" Akkarin snarled with soft vehemence, needing an outlet for his anger. However, the momentary poison of his thoughts was swiftly overtaken with self-loathing. His proud figure slumped a little, as if defeated, and his black eyes narrowed with a strange mixture of pain and cold calculation. His fury and wretchedness weighed inside him in equal measure, gnawing at him in remorseless bites – the chewing gut of misery and the inescapable knowledge of what he must do. He inhaled a ragged breath and calmed his mind with unimaginable effort.

__Lorlen! _He projected the mental call to his friend.

__Yes, High Lord? _Lorlen answered after a moment.

__I seem to have a free evening on my hands: a rare thing. _Akkarin kept his mental tone light. _Would you care to join me after you've dined; we can catch up on our little family; you haven't visited me for quite some time ._

__Of course; though sadly, I myself, am busy as always, but I can spare an hour or so for you ,my friend..._With equal effort, Lorlen addressed Akkarin in his old customary manner that had once slipped so easily and truthfully from his tongue; he never envisaged that it would leave such a bitterly acrid taste in his mouth.

Though Lorlen avoided such evenings with Akkarin as much as he could, he _had _got through them in the past months passably enough – there was no reason to think that this particular social call would offer any extra challenge. A couple of hours and glasses of wine later, and it would all be over, and Lorlen need not worry about another visit for a while.

__Good. _Akkarin responded firmly. _I will have the wine waiting._

__I look forward to it. Until later then. _Lorlen projected before turning his mind away.

__Yes - _Akkarin thought as he strode through the gardens towards his residence, his black robes billowing around him like some gargantuan bird of prey, as a familiar cold light sprang to life in his eyes.

__Until later, my friend..._

**_A/N: Struggling to fit this story in with all my other commitments, but I don't want to abandon it - for my own satisfaction, aswell as, hopefully, some of yours. I have sketched out some forthcoming chapters though, so that should help. I will try and update at no more than three week intervals, so I hope you stick with me!_**

**_Thanks to all my readers and reviewers - you give me the incentive to continue!_**


	12. Chapter 11 No Going Back

A/N:- Warning! A very long chapter! Only the brave and the bold should proceed!

**Chapter 11 – No going back**

There was no avoiding a summons from the High Lord; no excuse he could make and Rothen knew it. The alchemist had barely set foot in his classroom when a messenger had come bearing a message from Akkarin. Rothen now held the parchment in his hand, staring at it stupidly. The young servant who had brought it cleared his throat noisily, breaking Rothen's stupor. The alchemist swallowed hard, fearing that when he opened his mouth to speak, his words would stick in his throat.

"You may go – there is no return message," he managed to croak out finally. The boy bowed his head and walked off down the corridor.

_There is no return message because this is not a request to meet, but rather an order, _Rothen thought. _And in my rooms, and immediately – during classes...He knows – he must do – but how? _

The thoughts bounced around Rothen's head, adding themselves to the buzzing in his ears that had begun as soon as he had recognised the graceful hand of the written message. Panic had washed over him; his vision momentarily blurring as the din in his ears began. Now, he stood frozen as the tapping of the servants boots receded and fell silent. He ran his fingers through his greying hair and exhaled heavily.

_Maybe I am reading too much into this, _he thought hopefully. _I am a senior teacher after all; there are other reasons why the High Lord may want to see me. _Rothen desperately tried to convince himself, whilst all the time knowing that any enquiries about his teaching would have come through Jerrick, and not directly from Akkarin.

_And not during class time either. But...there is nothing else for it: I must go._

"Ah, Tegan, " Rothen addressed a boy that was at the head of a group of novices approaching the classroom. "Could you go and inform Lord Sarrin that immediate cover is needed for my class – the High Lord wishes to see me urgently."

_I will find out soon enough what has prompted this request, and why now. _Rothen stood frowning speculatively at the back of the boy who had hurried off down the corridor, and he had no clue as to the events of the night before, for Lorlen had dared not contact him...

* * *

Back and forth. To and fro.

Lorlen sat pinioned by magic to a chair of Akkarin's guest room as he furtively watched the High Lord pace the narrow chamber like a caged animal backed into a corner. Despite everything that had happened in the previous hour, Lorlen could not help but inwardly smile – albeit a grim one. Akkarin _had _been backed into a corner, and that he had been silently stalking the room for some thirty minutes now was testament to the fact that, despite his confident demeanour, the High Lord was unsure of what to do.

Lorlen didn't know whether to be relieved that Akkarin had not killed him, or fearful of what was playing out in his former friend's head. Outwardly Akkarin's face was stonily immobile, but, unseen by the administrator, his emotions raged in his vitals as he continued to pace up and down. The anger inside Akkarin swelled and abated – and swelled again, hungry and seeking...

Vengeance was certainly not beyond Akkarin; a primal baring of teeth; a banging of fists. But the target of such a hunger was not Akkarin's friend, bound to a chair before him now by his magic. _His magic ! _How the world had turned on its head! It seemed depressingly unjust that Kariko, the architect of this miserable mess, walked free, and Lorlen, Akkarin's closest friend, sat here at the High Lord's mercy and most likely in fear for his life – and for the lives of Sonea and Rothen...

* * *

Rothen hurried up the corridor towards his rooms in the magician's quarters. His mind was racing, but as if through a thick fog that stubbornly thwarted his attempts to clear it and form some reasonable answers to deflect any probing questions that Akkarin might ask him. If only he could risk communicating with Lorlen! But who knew what Akkarin suspected? Communicating with Lorlen might be the worst thing that Rothen could do. The alchemist knew that the High Lord was more than capable of listening in to any mental conversation without revealing his presence.

_And then there's Sonea to think of, _Rothen mused as he approached his door without encountering anyone except servants. _Akkarin must not find out about her. At least he is not here yet. _And he stopped short of his door. _I have a little time to clear my head and gather some coherent thoughts. _

Rothen reached out to grasp the door handle, but as he did so, it opened with a soft click and he blanched and watched on in horror as the door slowly opened to reveal a black-robed figure inside, with long fingers tightly clasped behind his back.

"Ah, Lord Rothen. Please, come in – these are your rooms after all." A familiar half-smile pulled at the High Lord's lips; a smile utterly devoid of humour.

_I've always hated that smile, _Rothen thought. _So superior; so condescending. _

A dark arch of an eyebrow shot up as Akkarin's lips abruptly straightened in a hard line.

_On reflection, maybe the half-smile is good. _And Rothen stood there on the threshold, rooted to the spot. Akkarin sighed pointedly and gestured irritably for Rothen to enter. As the older man mechanically obeyed, the door snapped shut behind him and the usually familiar sound felt ominous.

"If you gave more thought to improving the magical lock on your door than to other things," the High Lord said reprovingly, "it may have taken me more than two seconds to enter your rooms." The black eyes remorselessly held Rothen's in a fierce stare and the alchemist knew then, without doubt – Akkarin had found out.

"Now, could you please send for Sonea? Ask her to come here immediately - and make no mention of me," the High Lord asked with perfunctory politeness. Rothen guessed that his face had gone an unhealthy looking shade of puce, but he nevertheless made an attempt to look puzzled.

"Sonea?" He asked, frowning and in a nonplussed tone. "Why would you wish to see Sonea? The tests will begin shortly. Nothing can be so important as to warrant disrupting ..."

"Do not play the fool Rothen!" Akkarin snapped. "It doesn't become you," he added coldly. "Now," he said in a more controlled voice, "send for Sonea or I can do it myself, though, I assure you, that will do nothing for my current mood."

"Of course, High Lord. My...my apologises," Rothen stuttered before summoning a servant. "In the meantime, can _I _help you in any way?"

"No. It can wait until the girl is here..." And Akkarin turned to stare out of the window to await Sonea's arrival, and, as his thoughts turned to the previous night, he clasped his hands together so tightly that his knuckles went white and his brow furrowed in a deep frown...

* * *

To and fro. Back and forth.

The slow deliberation of Akkarin's pace about the guest room, and the circling of possible solutions to the current problem in his mind. The silence was only punctuated by the tap of boot on stone and the faint, rapid whispers of the two men's breath, strangely synchronised and the only thing about Akkarin and Lorlen that was now in unison. Lorlen also fancied that his thrumming heart could be heard without, so hard did it seem to beat in his chest.

Both men knew their friendship was now torn - in tatters. But Lorlen also felt that he barely knew the man who stalked the room before him. Maybe he had never known him, he mused. Maybe the entire friendship had been a sham; a means to Akkarin's ends – whatever they may be – and Lorlen was appalled that he had been so duped for all these years.

As the administrator pondered, Akkarin ventured a glance at him as he strode past. He caught Lorlen staring at him, and, for the briefest of moments, their eyes locked before the administrator looked away. The fleeting eye contact was enough, however, to confirm Akkarin's worst fears. The accusation in them was as clear as if Lorlen had screamed it in Akkarin's ear; the sense of betrayal that the High Lord's forced mind read had brought about was complete. There was no going back now. But how exactly could Akkarin go forward? How could he ensure Lorlen's silence? And Rothen's, and Sonea's? Three people who stood unwittingly between him and the safety of Imardin.

_Three people – but how shall I deal with them?_

By the following morning as he stood in Rothen's guest room, he thought he knew...

* * *

The High Lord moved towards Sonea. He could hear her uneven breathing – the high, fluting gasps of near panic- and he could sense the waves of fear that rolled of her slight frame. As his arms reached towards her with obvious intent, something within him tightened. He dismissed it.

His hands touched her head and she recoiled, then went rigid beneath them. In the split second before Akkarin's mind stepped into hers, he became acutely aware of her physicality; of the smooth silk of her dark hair between his fingers; of the warm, soft concavity of her temples beneath the cool heels of his palms; the pounding of her heart, almost suffocating her in fear.

As he had felt with Lorlen, and then Rothen, a self-loathing coursed through him for the sanctity of what he was about breach, but, as with them, he could see no alternative, and he had committed far worse deeds in his life. Yet despite his dismissive words to Rothen a moment ago, Sonea _was_ only a girl; not a child certainly, but a young woman nonetheless, and one who had barely begun to trust magicians. To enter her mind and rifle through her thoughts like a book seemed...wrong. But he couldn't escape from the need to see firsthand what the girl had witnessed that night, and he also had to find something in her that he could use to ensure her silence – and if he failed to find that inducement...

Akkarin wrestled briefly with his conscience before placing it behind a door in his mind, and taking with him only his sense of purpose, he stepped into the Sonea's mind. His frown was replaced by a calm, cold mask of detachment. He had a task to do, and it might not be the worst thing he would have to carry out before the day was at an end; at the least it was not as dispicable as what he had done to his friend the night before...

* * *

Lorlen shifted in his seat, trying to ease the stiffness of his muscles, but the restraining magic was strong and unrelenting. The silence stretched on remorselessly and his frustration was mounting, almost matching his fear.

What _was_ Akkarin thinking?! What _were_ the thoughts behind that inscrutable mask? Lorlen may have pondered, but he should have been glad he didn't know...

__Takan!_

__Yes, master?_

__You have seen and heard everything?_

The reply through the blood ring that Takan wore came clear, and with an undertone of grim resignment.

__Yes, master._

__It seems that three people, including Lorlen, know my secret – though only to the extent that I have practised black magic._

In the kitchen, adjacent to the guest room, Takan frowned.

__You are assuming, master, that the alchemist and the girl have told no-one since the guardianship hearing. That is a lot to assume – a year is a long time._

In the guest room, Lorlen watched as Akkarin's jaw clenched as he listened to Takan's doubts.

__Yes, you're right – as always – Takan. Though I have not detected anything unusual in anyone else's behaviour towards me, and Lorlen believes that only Rothen and Sonea share the secret. Still, I must know for certain._

__You will read their minds? _Takan enquired.

__Yes. _The answer came with emphatic resolution.

__And if it is only these three – what then? _The Sachakan gave life to the question that Akkarin did not want to answer, and the very words breathed a chill down his spine.

__Three more is small consequence in the scheme of things, _Takan continued, and the grim truth of it stung Akkarin.

__If they out your secret, a storm will break at the Guild and it will only be a matter of time before Kariko hears rumours on the wind. He will find it very interesting that the Guild has castigated its leader for the use of the forbidden black magic; it will confirm his suspicians, and he will not delay his attack. Even if you escaped and left Imardin, you could not hope to defeat the Ichani alone. _Takan paused but there was no response from his master.

__And they would come master - you know that. And there would be only one outcome. Your secret must be kept at all costs! At least until a time comes when a way to defeat the Ichani presents itself._

__And what if that time does not come Takan? What then? Does my life continue; my life of forbidden magic and shame and secrets. Until I die, one way or another, and then what? _

Takan could sense the frustration in Akkarin's words. The bitterness that was ever present, but that was rarely seen. The servant ignored the question, knowing there was no answer .

__But if they expose you now, it will be too soon; you are not prepared master, to face the Sachakans. _Takan hesitated before taking in a deep breath, stealing himself to make his meaning unequivocally clear.

__You have to get rid of them. _There was a minutes silence between black magician and servant, as heavy and laboured as the physical silence of the room Lorlen and Akkarin occupied. Eventually, Akkarin's mental voice came low and dangerous and Takan knew he was treading a fine line between servant and friend.

__I cannot... kill Lorlen, Takan. I have done much to be ashamed of – but I will not do that!_

Akkarin's black eyes flickered to Lorlen's as he passed him again on another stalking turn of the room. The administrator noticed the glint of the glance, but remained oblivious to the discussion about his continued existence that was playing out in Akkarin's head. The High Lord's eyes slid away and found focus on a cabinet in front of him.

__How will you ensure his silence then? _Takan knew any further discussion about Lorlen's continued well-being was at an end. Akkarin's gaze fixed on the dark red of a bottle of wine in the cabinet.

__A blood ring, _he stated calmly.

__And if he refuses to wear it?_

__Ah, Takan, you think of everything! There are magical means of keeping the ring on his finger against his will, but they are not pleasant, though better than the alternative. I will be able to monitor him constantly, and even my sleeping mind can be attuned to signs of danger._

__And the other two? You cannot have four people in the Guild bearing your blood-gems – it would drive you mad! Lorlen ,I can understand, but there is no other way for the old man and the girl. You must get rid of them! Lorlen's fear will bind him. If they disappear he will not speak out for fear of reprisal._

Takan's mental voice was becoming agitated now, so anxious was he for his master to be decisive and to remain objective and focused, as he always had been. He made one last final plea to coerce Akkarin into the unpleasant decision.

__The girl is very powerful you say ; her death, then, will not be in vain. Her strength that you would take will help protect Imardin, and its people._

Once more there was silence from the black magician in the other room before Akkarin finally responded, and there was a steely edge now to the voice that reverberated in Takan's mind.

__And just how, my clever servant, do you propose I vanish two magicians from the Guild with any credible explanation?_

The Sachakan's tone also darkened.

__I have thought of two explanations –would you like to hear them?_

Akkarin thought of Rothen and his novice, who were most likely sleeping at this hour, and blissfully unaware of the events that tomorrow may bring.

__I am not sure that I do..._

* * *

_How dare she?! Who does she think she is? _

To try to shield her thoughts with obstruction; swamping the memories he took control of with a myriad of inconsequential and tedious recollections, so that her mind became a confusion of swirling images and sounds ,all overlapping and merging until Akkarin felt slightly nauseous.

_The audacity! The temerity of her to resist!_

_The innovativeness, _a quieter voice whispered within him.

_The bravery. The spirit of this girl._

But Akkarin was so close to the memory he sought that he could not stop now. As he felt her sudden elation at her small success against him, his anger surged again. The shame and reluctance that had moved him when Sonea first entered the room, looking scared and fragile, was ashes – and that was how it should remain.

Who was she, but a girl from the Slums who knew nothing? She thought she knew what he was, and, like Lorlen and Rothen, she had condemned him out of hand, as Akkarin had known she must.

__Stop this, _he ordered. She did not.

She was motionless beneath his hands; her head so small that he felt he could snap her slender neck with little effort, and his thoughts turned to the previous night and Takan's suggested solution.

_You think you know me, Sonea, _he thought savagely to himself. _But you are wrong!_

Akkarin increased the pressure on her temples, but she made no sound, though it must have caused discomfort to such a tender spot. Yet he had no need to physically harm her; he could cause immeasurable pain and destroy her sanity with a flick of his fingers if he chose to.

Something with the power of a horse's kick slammed into Sonea's mind and she struggled against the powerful and inexorable will that held her – but she was as helpless as Lorlen had been the night before, watching the High Lord in his silent and predatory stalking...

* * *

To and fro. Back and forth; the pacing; the bouncing of thoughts.

Akkarin was a man who was unaccustomed to indecisiveness, but now he felt adrift. Feelings were moving in him where previously there had been nothing, and his path no longer seemed clear. He looked to the horrific sight of his friend pinned to a chair by his will; thought of the gentle alchemist and the vulnerable slum girl, and for the first time he doubted his motivation... and the doubt gave birth to the first faint stirrings of fear.

He had been beyond naïve to think that the world he knew could continue with him as its protector. And now, in the ruins of delusion, Akkarin was faced with difficult decisions that would have real repercussions on the people around him; people he knew well - his eyes flitted again to Lorlen – people he loved. With an effort he put all the unhappy thoughts out of his mind; it was a technique he knew well and had used on many occasions.

As he watched Akkarin stalk back and forth - like some living pendulum counting out the excruciating seconds - all that Lorlen saw was a mask descend over the High Lord's features, as impassively immobile as carved stone, with only the black eyes fluid with the disquiet within.

__Well? _ Takan sought opinion of his suggested course of action. The Sachakan knew he sounded coldly callous, but his detached pragmatism was born out of a cruel life of slavery, and the witnessing of terrible things. The focus for the servant's life had become the safety of the man he now called master, and anything, or anyone, who stood in the way of that was expendable.

Akkarin considered again: The gossips would seize the first possible explanation for Sonea and Rothens' disappearance with both hands; that the rumours about their illicit relationship were true, and that they had eloped to a secret location to live their lives as they would. Akkarin would produce a letter from the pair that confirmed it, and the Guild would regret the loss of Rothen, but breathe a sigh of relief that they were rid of the Slum girl. But Akkarin's mouth pulled downwards and he frowned.

_But those that knew them best would not believe it, and then there would be more questions; more suspicion. _

Akkarin thought of Rothen's independent and intelligent son, and he knew that Dorrien would not merely accept his father's unending silence. And the indispensible Cery would not just accept that Sonea would abandon her aunt, uncle and young cousin – never again enquiring after them. No, to kill them, take their power and hide their bodies was not possible.

The other explanation that Takan had put forward was_ not_ to try to hide their deaths, but rather to offer an innocent explanation for them. That Sonea's power was growing at an unprecedented rate, and that she tragically lost control of it in Rothen's presence, killing them both. It was more plausible, certainly; as a rare natural, Sonea was an unknown quantity, but the destruction that Akkarin would have to create to bear out the reason for the tragedy would inevitably take other lives with it. Akkarin finally answered his servant.

__There is another way that will not add to the tally of souls that already lie heavy on my conscience - though I confess it holds little appeal and will be irritatingly inconvenient at times._

__What have you got in mind Master?_

__To hold Sonea as hostage - here, as my novice - against Rothen's silence, and to buy the girl's compliance with fear._

__Fear of what? _Takan asked.

__Fear that I will harm Rothen, or others she holds dear._

In the kitchen Takan slumped down in a chair and rested his head wearily in his hands, rubbing his brow.

__But how do you know that either cares enough for the other for that plan to work?_

__ I don't, for certain – not yet anyway. _The High Lord admitted. __But after I have read their minds I will know, and if I do have doubts, then I always have your suggestions to fall back on. It is late; it will arouse suspicion if I ask to see them both now. My meeting with Rothen and Sonea will have to wait until the morning. _

Akkarin's gaze fell to the sachakan blade he had earlier placed on the table.

__For now, I have Lorlen to deal with._

And turning his mind away from Takan's, he flexed his hand in anticipation of the cut he must make. Abruptly, he released Lorlen from his magical bonds and with a quick, fluid movement, Akkarin snatched up the knife and slashed it across his own palm, feeling the bite of pain.

* * *

Pain!

An anguished cry rent the air of Rothen's guest room and with it something flinched inside Akkarin; something that accused him of being no better than the Ichani. But urgency and resolve eclipsed all other emotions. He felt Sonea's focus waver and he opened his eyes briefly and looked down at her thin features and her wide, frightened eyes that were dazed with pain and fogged with confusion. Behind her, Rothen tightened his protective grip on her shoulders, urging her to co-operate, and there was murder in the eyes that met Akkarin's.

Akkarin heard her pain-laboured breath hitching sharply in her throat.

"Stop fighting me," he said sternly. _Please..._

Again he increased the pressure at her temples, though he released the vice grip on her nerve endings which had caused her torment, and re-entered her mind, quickly sifting through her memories until he found what he was searching for.

So that was it! She had seen through the ventilation grille - and straight into his underground room, witnessing him return from a killing in the city! How easily he had been found out. Anger licked at his mind again; a proud and cold anger this time, from a man who could not tolerate being thwarted. He withdrew then, from her memories, but lingered in her mind like some lecherous parasite considering which of its host's dainties to feed on next.

_Have you allowed any to know of this other than Lorlen and Rothen?_

_No. _

He believed her. But it wasn't enough – not if he was going to let her live. Not if she was to sleep just a few doors away from him. He needed to know every part of her; to understand her completely. A cold and ruthless calculation drove Akkarin now – to know exactly how he could manipulate Sonea to his will, and so ensure her silence.

With merciless determination he delved into the most intimate recesses of her mind – and so unwittingly turned a key, letting the door of his heart open. The merest of chinks, so small as to be undetectable – but there it was.

In the few short minutes it took to steal Sonea's Self, Akkarin knew her – utterly. He discovered, in such a rush of intensity, what most people took a lifetime to find out about each other. Things that she barely remembered, or knew, about herself. Her greatest sorrows; desires; hopes and fears. The things that made her laugh, and cry; the people she loathed, and loved - and as he suspected, Rothen was one of the latter. None of her secrets survived his scrutiny.

He also saw his rain-drenched self – his face and identity obscured from her – nearly three years ago now. Through her eyes he was a tall, black shadow of fear; his sincerely meant kindness not trusted and so rebuffed_. _Akkarin smiled inwardly at the ironies of fate:

On that stormy night in the dingy back alleys of the slums, Sonea had taken him as a faceless stranger, fearing he would attempt to violate her body, and worse. And here he was, in the opulence and comfort of the Guild, openly violating her mind, and had _considered_ doing worse. Maybe he _was_ the monster she took him to be on that night of first meeting.

Disconcerted, Akkarin suddenly severed his connection with her, though his fingers imperceptibly lingered at her temples before his hands fell away to his sides. He turned quickly away, having no desire to see the accusation and hurt that he felt sure would be lurking behind her dark brown gaze. Where they had touched her, his fingers clenched into fists. This was their fault - not his!

"You would both expose me if you could," he stated with soft malevolence.

__Takan! Make the novices room ready, and arrange for a personal servant to be employed at the residence – someone you can trust to be discreet, and who is not in the pockets of the court gossips._

__Yes master. I take it that your little street is to be our new house guest? _A pause. __You are satisfied master?_

__Yes, I am satisfied that I can control her – and she is not my little street urchin, Takan, _Akkkarin added with vague annoyance.

__I believe that she is now, master, _Takan responded dryly.

Akkarin turned then to face Rothen and Sonea and reveal the circumstances they were now to live by, and which would ensure their silence. Rothen almost crumpled as realisation struck and something akin to pity – or maybe it was disdain – fleetingly played across the High Lord's face, but the alchemist did not notice.

Akkarin moved towards Sonea, thinking that he may have to force her to move, and not relishing the idea of doing so. Though he did not want to explore his reasons , Akkarin had no desire for Sonea to think worse of him than she already did.

His step drew her eyes to his – wide, the darkest brown and glistening with tears he knew she would not shed.

"There is a room in my residence for the High Lord's novice. You will come with me now, and send a servant for your belongings later."

Sonea's eyes slipped to Rothen's – for help, Akkarin realised, though it could not come. The black magician continued to regard her with the strange fascination that he had felt before, though this time it was underpinned with all the knowledge he had of her now. She was still as slender and fragile looking as a stem; her face was immediate and intelligent; her mouth generous and mobile, the kind made for smiling – a thing which, oddly, she had often done in her other life, before the Guild. Now, in a few swift moments, Akkarin knew he had robbed her of the desire to do so, and it gave him no pleasure.

"Now, Sonea."

A push from Rothen and the wrench was made – such a small distance between the alchemist and his former novice, but it may as well have been a gaping chasm.

Akkarin felt vague amusement as her chin tilted up at a proud and determined angle and she took a steadying breath. She was scared, but she was not cowed by him. She had a rare inner strength, and he could not help but admire it. It was odd – this girl who, until a few minutes ago, had been all but a stranger, was as transparent as a child to him now.

Rothen shot Akkarin one last seething glance, and then the High Lord and his novice walked through the door and it snapped with finality behind them.

"Come along" Akkarin said, glancing down at her. "The novice's room in my residence hasn't seen an occupant in many years, but it has always been kept ready for one."

Remembering the poverty of her life from her memories, he made an impulsive attempt to reach out to her.

"You'll find it much more comfortable than those in the Novice's Quarters." But the words came out tersely and sounded hollow and absurd, even to his own ears.

Sonea stared fixedly ahead, trying not to give in to the dizziness that assailed her. She remained pale and tight-lipped as she walked towards her new life, every step feeling like she was mired in quick-sand, as she struggled to comprehend the unreality of her situation.

And only the night before, another new understanding had been reached between two men who had once been the closest of friends...

* * *

"Good night, High Lord," Lorlen's words were scraping and thin.

"Good night Administrator. And do not leave it so long until your next visit." Akkarin's words were casual enough, but their meaning was all too clear. As Lorlen turned and walked hastily away, Akkarin watched with sad contemplation and pursed lips; his eyes narrowed into slits of night.

And Lorlen felt that intense gaze boring into his back. Even after everything, the distance that lay so immeasurably between them now felt to Lorlen like a sphere pulled out of proportion – wrong. A miserable part of Lorlen wanted to unknow Akkarin's treachery; to go back to before – but he knew that everything would now be measured from this moment of ultimate betrayal.

At the door of the High Lord's residence, Akkarin turned finally with a sigh and he re-entered his guest room, his shoulders drooping with the tell-tale signs of weariness. As if from nowhere, Takan appeared bearing a glass of wine and some sweet rolls. Akkarin gave him a brief, but grateful, smile as he sank down into a chair.

"Thankyou, Takan."

Takan's responding grimace was contrite. "I would say 'my pleasure', but I take none in advising the ending of two innocent lives. " And he too slumped forlornly into the chair next to his master. The two men remained silent for a long moment but their eyes met.

"So," Akkarin sighed," the tide has turned my friend." The magician conjured flames in the kindling that was laid in the stone hearth, though no fire could ward off the chill he felt.

"Will I drown, or will I weather the stormy seas?"

"I hope for the sake of Imardin, that you weather the storm, master." Silence stretched between them again, each lost in their own thoughts, before Takan glanced pensively at Akkarin.

"Why didn't you tell Lorlen your story? He would have believed you. I know he would."

"You assume too much, Takan!" Akkarin snapped coldly before sighing and running long fingers across his forehead. How indescribable the unburdening would have felt. Beyond words, to share his secret with his friend. The sweetness of it! How the words would have flowed like nectar from Akkarin's tongue, despite the bitterness of the story.

But there had been no doubt in Lorlen's mind; no doubt that Akkarin had acted with anything but the worst and most evil of intentions, so ingrained was the blind hatred of black magic. Realising that his closest friend had already condemned him, without even the chance for an explanation, had pained Akkarin like a physical blow, and he felt sick with it. The High Lord's confession, so ready to come, had died on his lips. Now, Akkarin managed a weak and weary smile.

"It seems that I am destined to never share my secret; _our _secret really. It is just you and I, my friend..."

And though the idea had begun to take shape, Akkarin could not have really believed that, only the next night, someone else would be living under the same roof as himself and his servant...

* * *

Akkarin stared blindly at the lines of his neat and graceful hand on the parchment before him. His mind was elsewhere, re-living the events of the last day. It had only been the previous evening that he had watched Sonea cross the courtyard to dine with Rothen and his son, and realisation had dawned. So much had changed in those twenty-four hours.

Now, here he was, formalising, as was required, the transfer of Sonea's guardianship to himself. His face darkened and he scowled as he folded the sheet and sealed it, writing Jerrick's name on it with a decisive flourish. There! – it was done, and he would have to make the best of it; though a mistrustful, but resourceful, young woman living under his roof was a complication he could do without.

"Arghh!" He growled as he pushed himself back from his study desk. Why had this had to happen?! He pulled with impatient irritation at the bond which tied his long hair back in his neck. He shook his head so that it cascaded in unruly black tangles onto his shoulders, though its release did nothing to ease the pressure that throbbed at his temples; that had another source entirely – the dull ache of uncertainty in his mind.

Akkarin was still questioning himself, and his motives. He had believed that he was resigned to being the self-appointed protector of Imardin, but today had shaken his resolve. Emotions that he had thought far in the past – unattainable – were calling out to him again, where before there had been only cold intellect. He felt disconcerted; troubled, and it wasn't a feeling he was used to.

The clicking of the door as Takan entered broke Akkarin's thoughts. The High Lord looked up expectantly at his servant, but Takan only sighed and shook his head.

"She has barely moved from the window, and has taken no food. She is frightened and miserable master, and – if I may be so bold – understandably so."

Akkarin scraped at the stubble that darkened his cheeks, looking slightly bewildered. Ichani, he could handle; but head-strong young women from the slums, he had not had much practice with. He pulled his lip between thumb and finger and, in different circumstances, Takan would have been amused at the uncustomary uncertainty in his master.

"Send...Viola is it?" Takan nodded in confirmation of the new servant's name. "Send Viola with some nemin - "

A stolen image of Sonea came into the forefront of Akkarin's mind; her eyes wide with wonder as she dipped a small finger into a tiny glass jar, and the unadulterated pleasure as she touched the finger to her lips and gingerly tasted the sticky, golden substance.

"- In some warm milk with honey. She likes honey; a rare treat, " his lips twisted, "until now." How strange, this sense of knowing someone he had not even spoken with until today.

"It is best she sleeps," he continued and Takan nodded his agreement.

"Yes, master. Is there anything else?"

"Yes; could you prepare something tempting for her breakfast. She must eat - she is too thin. I cannot have people saying that I am neglecting the wellbeing of my novice – not when I have the best cook in Kyralia!" And Akkarin smiled thinly for the first time that day.

Takan grinned. "I think I can manage that. I have been longing for the opportunity to clothe her bones since I first set eyes on her."

"Mmmmm. And I seem to recall that I dismissed it as a whimsical notion that had no chance of being fulfilled." Akkarin's expression became one of self-deprecation.

"It seems, my good Takan, that I was wrong."

* * *

Later that night, Akkarin awoke with a start, the blackness of his eyes exaggerated by the enlarged disc of his pupils as they strained to drink in the light from the darkened room. As he lifted his head off the desk, a soft globe light sprang to life above him. Blissful oblivion clouded his thoughts for a moment before the events of the last day reasserted themselves in his mind. He threw back his head, his neck a pale, graceful arch of sinew, and ran his fingers through his hair - and groaned. The residence was eerily quiet, seemingly stirred by no breath but his own, and the silence swelled around him.

But there _was _now another's breath, a constant presence to stir the air, and it was just a short distance down the corridor. Akkarin stood and stretched his arms above his head to ease his aching muscles, and he sent a trickle of healing energy to ward off his weariness. He glanced out of the un-shuttered window at the dense peacefulness of the night, and he groaned despairingly again as he thought of the barrage of questions, and indeed indignations, that he knew the morning would bring. He had to find a way to somehow convince at least the king and higher magicians that he had been thinking of taking Sonea as his novice for some time.

Sonea..._Was _she his novice now? _ Was _he a guardian? Or had it all been a bad dream? He snorted softly at the irony of his most newly acquired title; a guardian. The word implied protection, safeguarding, but, as far as Sonea was concerned, nothing could be further from the truth.

Despite the healing energy, Akkarin knew it would be wise to get some sleep before facing the new day, and he left the study and strode silently down the corridor towards his bedroom. As he passed Sonea's door, a compulsion overcame him to check with his own eyes that she was really there – sleeping under his roof; an intrusion on the carefully constructed privacy that he had so savagely maintained since he had become High Lord.

Viola had reported that Sonea had drunk the nemin laced milk – she would be sound asleep now; no danger of waking her. With a slight exertion of will, he opened the door to her room, and the globe light above his head dulled to a dim glow. Takan had suggested that Akkarin use Sonea as a source of power, but, for the moment, he had dismissed it. Now he found himself wondering if he_ could _come to trust her - and her him. Though afraid of him, she had tried to defy him and had refused to be intimidated by him, and her spirit struck a chord somewhere within him.

As he stood there, memories of the day refused to be quieted and random recollections flashed, unbidden, into his head. The softness of her hair, and the smoothness of her skin under his hands. The panicked hitching of her breath, and the hunted look in her expressive eyes.

Akkarin took a step across the threshold and the light above his head subtly lit the room, its beams diffusing softly onto the large bed in the centre. Sonea was curled in the middle, the dark cloud of her hair partially obscuring her face ,and her hands were tucked under the hollow of her chin. The milky whiteness of a too-thin arm was lying over the coverings, exposed by her short-sleeved nightgown. She looked like a child; a child that was...lost in the vastness of the bed.

Akkarin remembered the fragility of her up close. By the Eye, what was he doing?! Frightening a near-child half to death!

_But she is not a child, and she is stronger than her appearance suggests,_ he thought, recalling the mortally wounded Sachakan slave she had knifed.

He was suddenly angry, with himself and the girl. Any concern that had moved him during the day vanished. She was nothing to him beyond a cipher that he might, with fortune on his side, use to further his own ends. And if she suffered in the process, it was of no moment to him. He stood watching her, as he often seemed to find himself - watching her.

He glided soundlessly to the edge of the bed and he reached out with slightly trembling fingers until his hand hovered just above the whiteness of her bare arm. He could hear the deep, regular breath of sleep, and also his own rapid breathing, and the moment stretched out of all proportion to its brevity as he was lost in the thoughts and confusion of the day. Then, abruptly, he leaned forwards and grasped the blanket and pulled it over her arm against the coldness of the night. Though he did not know it, a faint smile touched his lips, then, the moment was gone.

He took in a ragged breath and drew back. To trust her with the truth would be madness – he would watch and wait, assess her value and compliance and make use of her. Beyond that, she was nothing. He looked down at her once more, a line creasing his brow now, and then he turned and walked quickly from the room, closing the door silently behind him. He stalked down the corridor, ignoring the faint and distant voice that accused him of self-delusion. Such human failings as pity and trust were a thing of the past, and the past was dead to him. Sonea may be living at the residence now, but Akkarin felt as on his own as ever.

A/N Phew! If you've got this far, thankyou!

I get the feeling that interest in this fic is waning now, and whilst I enjoy writing it, I do probably spend too much effort on it in an attempt to offer something that is vaguely interesting and readable. So, though I have other chapters in my head, I think that this is maybe the last one that I will take the time to type up and publish on this site.

I have loved writing these fics and they have given me alot of pleasure. Thanks to all the support I have had, and to all my reviewers (oh dear, it sounds like a swan song now!). This fandom seems to be dying of late, so I'd like to encourage any writers to get writing and posting their stories of Kyralia! :)


	13. Chapter 12 Lines of Communication

**A/N : Oh well...I had some time on my hands, so here we go again...**

**Chapter 12 Lines of Communication**

Tobin glanced surreptitiously at the others around the table. Next to her, Camilya, her younger sister, sat stiffly, eyes down, her delicate hand holding a golden fork which toyed with the food on her plate. Tobin knew Cami would rather be anywhere else than here, and she couldn't blame her, for the tension between the other two diners present was palpable and was tightening slowly; ratcheting until something was bound to give.

Akkarin sat opposite his two sisters, smiling sincerely at them and enquiring as to their lives at court. Tobin knew her brother had little patience for the machinations, often underhand, of court politics, but as High Lord he was obliged to take an interest and, though he saw them rarely these days, he was always mindful of protecting them from any damaging schemes he heard rumours of. Tobin stared at him as he spoke quietly with Camilya and, as he smiled a rare and genuine smile that touched his eyes, she was suddenly reminded of the sweetness of his younger self, and she sensed the compassion that, as a child, was his greatest quality, was still there, despite his carefully contrived aloofness.

Even now Tobin fancied that she could still see the boy in him; the brother she used to know and love – all round black eyes and solemn gravity and bashfulness; an incongruous mix of childish playful innocence and sober maturity beyond his young years. Tobin shuddered involuntarily and her hazel green eyes narrowed. The last vestiges of that boy had been left behind on Akkarin's travels, and only a grim, sharply intelligent and formidable magician had returned. Tobin had tried in vain to use the bond they had shared as children to gain greater details of Akkarin's journey from him, but he gave her the same reply as he gave everyone else – he had spent much time meditating and in solitude in order to better understand and hone his powers. But Tobin had known him longer than most, even Lorlen, and was blessed with that quality of emotional intuition that was generally unique to the female sex. There was something more that her brother was reluctant to share, she knew it, and it cost him dearly to keep it to himself.

Tobin's musings were interrupted when she became aware that Akkarin's eyes had slid to hers and were regarding her with amusement.

"I know that face Tobin," Akkarin said softly, a smile tugging at his lips. "That is the face you used to wear before deciding to single-handedly take on the education of a servants' child; or when you were intent on nursing a foundling bird with a broken wing back to life." Akkarin raised an eyebrow and waved an admonishing finger teasingly at his older sister as she flushed bright pink.

"Do not look at _me_ like that! I do not need your ministrations Tobin. I will not be your next project!"

"As if...I...would never presume to..."Tobin spluttered, embarrassed that her brother had caught her staring at him, before her features became all indignation. Her brother may be the High Lord, but she was still his elder.

"If you must know, I was recalling you as a child and thinking that I can still see that boy in you, although you try to hide him."

Akkarin's playful smile vanished and he reached instinctively for his wine glass.

"Do not hold out any hope for him Tobin – he is long gone," he murmured darkly before taking a slug of wine. Tobin frowned and opened her mouth to protest, but at that moment, someone at the head of the table cleared their throat and there was a loud clinking as cutlery was none too gently placed down on a china plate. Tobin's head snapped towards her mother and she could see that the tightly controlled expression Liessa had been wearing all evening was slipping into one of unadulterated rage.

The Lady Delvon splayed out her fingers on the table and her frame shook as she took in deep, calming breaths, though they were to no avail. Tobin braced herself, knowing what had piqued her mother's anger and that, whether her son was the High Lord or not, Liessa would have her say on the matter. The older woman turned to the servant who stood by the door of the room.

"You may go!" She snapped at him, and the relieved looking man bowed his head and shot out of the room, a little too hastily than propriety would have demanded, but his mistress's attention was not on him.

"This is intolerable!" Liessa seethed under her breath once the door had clicked shut. "This... this mockery of normality," and she gestured to her children in disgust and contempt. "You sit there and laugh and reminisce whilst disgrace has been brought upon our family."

Liessa's voice, which had started as a hiss, was gathering strength now as her fury mounted. She stared fixedly at her plate with a strange mixture of confusion and anger as she struggled to understand that her carefully laid plans for the evening had been thwarted, usurped as they were by more important and scandalous matters.

"I...I thought to bring us together to discuss our good fortune in the king's clear courtship of Camilya -" her eyes flickered to Akkarin, " – and how best to proceed with Merin. But now.." Liessa bit down on the inside of her cheek, her anger filling to the brim and about to overspill. "Now, I would not be surprised if the king changes his mind!"

"He will not." Akkarin's deep voice came with quiet patience as he sat back in his chair. He did not want this confrontation in front of his sisters if he could avoid it.

"I have spoken with him; he is less bothered by my new acquaintance than you are." His calm was too much for Liessa and the tide broke.

"Acquaintance!" She exclaimed with incredulity. "What were you _thinking_!" Liessa shrieked, her dark glare holding the unmerciful eyes of her son. Tobin grimaced, knowing them both well enough to foresee that there was no stopping this argument now. The eyes that met his mother's over the rim of his glass were dangerously dark and Akkarin knew what, or rather who, had angered Liessa so much.

"She is one of the – no, _the_ most powerful novice we have had for many years; it is only natural that I have taken her as my novice," Akkarin stated matter-of-factly, still keeping a hold on his calm demeanor. It helped that his words were a mantra that he had repeated to many in the last week or so. Liessa's anger did not abate however, and she pushed her plate away, dispensing with the charade that she was actually interested in the food. Akkarin glanced at the plate and raised one dark eyebrow.

"I could get Takan to give your cook some guidance; you would not leave your meals uneaten then, I assure you," he said dryly. Tobin inwardly groaned.

"Akkarin!" The two sisters both jumped at Liessa's sharp rebuke, her voice scathing and shrill.

"Why do you not take this seriously!" She continued, before taking a breath to steady herself. "You have steadfastly refused all offers of marriage over the last years and I thought: _No matter – he is still young. _But now – now there will_ be_ no offers, for what daughter of the Houses wants to be exposed to the company of a beggar girl, as would be inevitable since she is now living under your roof as your _novice_!" Liessa almost choked on the last word as it was spat from her mouth like venom. She brought her hand to her face, cupping her own cheek despairingly.

"Oh, thank the Eye that your father was held up in Davlin – you will break his heart Akkarin."

"But not yours, " Akkarin breathed softly, though Tobin just managed to make out the words. Louder, but wearily, he said:

"Why did you allow me to join the Guild if I was more value to you as a marriage pawn?"

Liessa ignored the question and instead her features became distant and thoughtful. "I was hopeful that you would take up the connection you once enjoyed with the king's cousin on your return from your travels." Her expression became shrewd and calculating as she glanced keenly to her son. "It may not be too late; she has not settled with anyone else. Maybe you can persuade her heart to turn to you again." Liessa's gaze became sharply intense. "I know you _can_ be charming when it suits you Akkarin."

Tobin watched as her brother's jaw clenched convulsively – a tell-tale sign she recognised. This was not going to end well, but she had to try nonetheless. She cleared her throat nervously and then addressed Liessa.

"Mother, Akkarin is the High Lord; he is more than capable of conducting his personal affairs," she ventured in what she hoped was both a soothing yet warning tone. Akkarin glanced to his older sister and his features softened slightly before he turned back to his mother and the cold mask of aloof impatience descended again.

"No, it's fine Tobin, " he said and his voice, soft as it was, bristled with anger as he reclined nonchalantly in his chair. His relaxed repose did not fool Tobin for a moment.

"_If_ the Lady Alya _has_ a heart, it is so cold that it would shatter into a thousand pieces if it so much as attempted to circulate a little warmth around her much coveted body." Akkarin's eyes narrowed as he spoke again.

"And you have still not answered my question," he said addressing his mother. "Why _did _you let me join the Guild; you could have stood in my way if you wished it otherwise."

Liessa's glance became sharp and when she replied and her voice was tight with long suppressed emotion.

"We were under great pressure – your father and I – when you were tested and the extent of your power was discovered. They assured us that you would achieve great things."

Akkarin's lips pulled in a sour smile. "Did they? Well, _they _were right about that; I'll bet you could not believe it when I became High Lord?" He thought of his parents' joy when he was elevated to the second most important position in the realm. How confident they must have been that his first loyalty would be to them, and that he would prioritize gaining influence for them whenever he could – how wrong they had been.

"What a disappointment I must be." His mock self-deprication was swiftly replaced by a smile that was almost savage. "Did you wish you'd kept me at home Liessa? To marry me off and continue your precious dynasty?"

"Akkarin!" Tobin exclaimed, horrified and dismayed as she thought of the consequences such brutally honest talk might unleash. Mother and son's eyes were locked on each other, and they paid no heed to Tobin.

"I did not want the Guild to take you. I did not want you to go. You were only fifteen." A wistful sadness played in Liessa's voice and passed fleetingly across her face, making her features appear awkward with unfamiliar emotions. Akkarin, however, was oblivious to the momentary change in his mother.

"Oh? Did my moving to the Guild deprive your hands of their target practise? " He muttered in a low voice, dripping with contemptuous sarcasm. He knew he should rise above such pettiness, for the sake of his sisters if nothing else, but his mother riled him like no other and he could not help but continue this destructive game of verbal sparring. His eyes flickered to Camilya who had remained silent and head down, staring resolutely at her plate in an attempt to look as inconspicuous as possible.

"I am surprised that you did not take your frustrations out on Cami once I had gone," he said with flippant innocence.

Utter silence stole upon the room like a thick fog that choked any words that may have escaped the diners' lips. Liessa stared at the bent head of her youngest child whose cheeks flamed red with the knowledge of the attention that was now fixed upon her. Tobin broke the suffocating silence, speaking in a cautious and tentative voice.

"There is nothing to be gained from raking all of this up. What is done is ..." But Akkarin's older sister never got to finish her sentence as her brother abruptly held up a hand to forestall her words, his eyes wide as he gazed, horrified, in dawning realisation at his youngest sister whose eyes now brimmed with tears.

"Cami..." he faltered. "I did not know. I would never have left you to suffer that ..." This time it was he that did not finish as Cami could bear it no longer and leapt from her seat, throwing down her napkin as she fled from the room, hot tears coursing down her cheeks. Silence descended once more and Tobin felt the blood roar in her ears as she held her breath and looked to her brother.

Slowly Akkarin turned his head from the door that Camilya had just exited through and he bent his unblinking gaze on his mother who had the grace to at least wince slightly at the malevolence in her son's face. She met his eyes defiantly however, the tilt of her head proud and remorseless.

"Don't you dare!" She spat. "I dealt out nothing that I did not receive in my time. A little discipline never harmed me!" She added coldly.

"A little discipline..." Akkarin spluttered incredulously as his mind tried to process this new and painful knowledge. "Is that what you call it? She was only ten when I left. How _could_ you?" Akkarin murmured quietly in spite of his anger, still disbelieving as a sick feeling of horror and guilt settled on him.

"I don't have to stay here and listen to this!" Liessa barked as she abruptly stood, still seething with barely contained fury.

"Hole yourself up then with your slum-whore of a novice!" And she shot him a look of scathing disdain. "You will need her services, for no woman will come near you whilst she is living under your roof!" Despite herself, she instinctively inclined her head to her son before storming towards the door. As she reached out a shaking hand to grasp the handle and open it, the heavy wooden door opened with a soft click and swung outwards. Liessa's face purpled as Akkarin's was overcome with a smug smile. The last word was his, so to speak. The doorframe rattled on its hinges as the Lady Delvon slammed it behind her with a force that belied her willowy frame.

"Well, that was a success!" Tobin let go of her breath as she spoke exasperatedly, then she sighed heavily as she looked at her brother who reached for his glass. Tobin pursed her lips, though her features softened in empathy as she took in the unreadable expression on Akkarin's face as he battled with the conflicting emotions within him.

"She loves us all in her own way; you know that don't you?" Tobin murmured gently as she reached and laid a hand on Akkarin's arm. He turned to her with a forced smile, but he did not acknowledge her solicitous words.

"Does she still...?" And he struggled with the words. "Does she still...pay Cami special attention?" Akkarin's eyes glittered as he held Tobin's, silently challenging her to speak the truth.

"No," his sister answered emphatically. "Not since the king has been paying her special attention of a different kind. If Cami marries Merin, we will all be forgiven our shortcomings as offspring," she said and her mouth twisted bitterly at the fickleness of it all.

"Don't torture yourself with guilt Akkarin. You had no way of knowing, and could have done little if you did." Tobin lowered her head. "You cannot feel worse than I do. Apart from the odd occasion, she never treated me in that way. I still don't know why. But escaping her hand whilst you and Cami did not, was its own kind of cruel punishment." Akkarin frowned and laid his hand over hers before she gave his arm a final, grateful squeeze and pulled away. She rose then from the table, and held his dark, intent glare for a moment and she smiled.

"It's been good to see you Akkarin," she stated warmly. "Really. But I must go now and see how Cami is." Tobin dipped her head respectfully to her brother. As she reached the door, she turned suddenly, and glanced over her shoulder.

"Oh, and for what it's worth, I think you have done a brave and good thing in taking in this Sonea. If she is as powerful as rumour has it, I hope that you train her to be one of the greatest magicians of recent times. Slum girl or not, no-one can argue with that, can they?" And Tobin raised an eyebrow, mimicking her brother, and she shot him a conspiratorially rebellious look before leaving the room.

Akkarin stared at the closed door for a moment before smiling to himself and shaking his head. He always had gotten on well with Tobin.

_If only she knew the real reason that I have taken Sonea as my novice – she would not think so well of me._ A frown replaced the smile. _Still, I can do my best for Sonea; we may need all the skilled magicians we can get in the future, and she deserves that much from me at least._

He pushed aside the feeling of guilt that always arose whenever he thought of his novice and he reached for his wineglass. He sighed as he looked around at the half-eaten meal and empty chairs and he raised his glass in a hollow mockery if a toast.

"To my family," he murmured bitterly before draining his cup dry.

* * *

Sonea settled herself into the window seat, taking one of the velvet cushions from the deep ledge and placing it behind her back to protect herself from the unyielding wooden panelling that covered the walls in this small room. From this vantage point she could see the courtyard below and watched, almost entranced, as dried leaves skittered across the stone flags, dancing to the tune of the brisk wind. The glass pane of the window rattled as a gust blew suddenly against it causing Sonea to shiver. She pulled her cloak tighter around her before grimacing in consternation as she remembered that she could create heat with magic now. As the air around the window warmed, Sonea wondered if she would ever think of herself as a magician first and a dwell second, or would her former life in the Slums always shape her first and foremost?

Sonea sighed, then pulled a book out of a leather satchel that lay on the floor besides her. She laid the book on her lap, and ran her fingertips over the dark blue cover, savouring the feeling of the soft hide of the volume's binding. Unknowingly she sighed again. Ten days since her life had dramatically changed – again; though for the time being she had not really been made to face the magnitude of that change.

Her new guardian seemed to desire her company as much as she desired his. Though she welcomed the lack of contact with the High Lord, she could not help but wonder at it. When she had made that short, but significant, walk from Rothen's rooms to the High Lord's residence ten days ago, she had felt her life closing in about her; the bars of an invisible cage springing up around her with every step. Sonea had imagined her movements beyond the residence, or even her room, to be restricted; that she would be constantly watched and monitored, if not by Akkarin himself, then by a loyal servant, but this had not been the case. Apart from the, admittedly daily, but brief meetings with the High Lord, Sonea barely saw him. Her self-induced fantasy that nothing much had changed was also aided by the timing of Akkarin's discovery.

By virtue of the mid-winter break, there were few novices and magicians at the University to remind Sonea of her new-found status. With only a little effort she could almost forget that she was Akkarin's novice now. Almost. As it was, Sonea revelled in the freedom of her own company whilst she could, and the empty corridors and echoing silence of the Guild buildings brought her a strange kind of peace. Within these portal rooms that led to the inner passages, she felt that she could hide away from the world forever, always managing to be one step ahead of any pursuer, just like in the maze of the Slums a year ago. Except she had been found then, and it was not even Akkarin who had personally tracked her, as he surely would if she disappeared this time. And, of course, there was Rothen and Lorlen, she reminded herself and she smiled ruefully. Considering the wellbeing of magicians was something the Sonea of a year ago would have had only derision for; now it shaped and informed her actions and decisions - what would the friends of her former life think of that, she wondered?

Not for the first time in the last few days, Sonea's mind turned to Cery and the Thieves. Maybe she could tell them about Akkarin and they could help her. But, again, she dismissed the idea. Cery knew nothing of the ways of magicians, and there was certainly nothing that he could do against Akkarin, but she knew him well enough to know that he would want to try, and that would only put him in danger. Best leave Cery oblivious to her plight, and to the nature of her new guardian.

As she mused, Sonea was still absently fingering the book and, opening it, she looked down at the smooth, thick, creamy pages with their neat black text – the best quality parchment bound in the highest quality leather. There were definitely_ some_ advantages to living in the Guild, and her newly gained skill of reading and discovery of books was undoubtedly one. On a chill day like today, she could find a small room with a window, as she preferred, and lose herself completely in the story-swept pages of a book, almost forgetting her miserable predicament. Yet as the end of the break loomed ahead of her, and the inescapable reality of having to converse with novice and tutors alike grew nearer, her sense of dread became greater each day. But for now, in this small, dark-panelled room, with its cushioned window seat and its sharply fragrant smell of wood oil, Sonea felt inconceivably content in her solitude, but then, she was sweetly oblivious to the fact that she not actually alone.

* * *

With more than half the University's inhabitants elsewhere, it did not take much effort or magic for a magician of Akkarin's skill to trace and isolate Sonea's presence. As on other days when the weather was inhospitable, she had found a comfortable corner and had curled up with another of her dwindling supply of books. The University libraries were now closed and Akkarin made a mental note to ask her if she wished to purchase any books – or anything else she may require for that matter. The High Lord leaned his head back against the dusty wall of the hidden passage he now found himself in – the layer of brick and wood the only barrier between himself and his novice. This was not the first time that Akkarin had been compelled to check on Sonea, telling himself he was just ensuring that she complied to the conditions he had set, though he always lingered, watching her, far longer than was necessary.

Despite her initial defiance during the mind read, Sonea had settled in surprisingly quickly, establishing a routine, and distractions for herself. She rose early and he watched every day as she walked briskly, head bowed, towards the baths. A luxury, he knew, that no-one from the Slums could resist, no matter how unhappy the circumstances. As she arrived, later and later each night, from her wanderings in the deserted University buildings, he had also noted the ever-presence of another, much cherished luxury - a book, either clutched closely to her chest or protruding out of a bag that was slung across her which he knew contained a small supply of food and drink.

A faint line creased Akkarin's brow; she was still too thin_. Too frail-looking for your conscience to bear, _he thought. _A girl from the Slums and I am holding her against her will and proving to her every day that magicians are every bit as callous and heartless as she believed them to be. _The frown deepened. It still bothered him that she thought so ill of him. _No, not me, _he corrected himself irritably. _It bothers me that she thinks so badly of all magicians._

Akkarin turned to face the wall. He was aware that Sonea knew of the inner passages, but she was still oblivious to the existence of the hidden corridors beyond; there was no way that she could know that he was watching her from this one. He brought his eye, shining jet, up to the spy hole and looked into the room beyond.

Her child-like fingers traced reverently over the pages of her book, following the words as she read them, lost in the story they wove. She had taken off her boots and her legs were tucked underneath her, the side of her head resting against the window. A stubbornly wayward lock of her growing hair kept springing in front of her eyes and she absently tucked it, again and again, behind her ear.

And Akkarin watched, unknowingly transfixed, as her face became vibrantly alive in a way he had never seen before. A face, he suspected, that was only ever witnessed by the pages of a book and certainly never by him. Her gaze became sparkling and luminous, and she had a birdlike way of tilting her head whilst her dark eyes danced as she drank in the words before her. As the book unfolded its tale, Akkarin saw the various emotions play out across Sonea's features; a naked awe at the power of the words, more potent than Akkarin could ever recall feeling. Even his early experiences of books were not occasions for joy – only discipline; a means to learning.

Every so often Sonea would raise her head and look out of the window, a smile touching her lips as she vicariously, but keenly, shared the happiness of the characters of the story. Once as Akkarin watched, she drew in a sharp breath, her eyes blinking as moisture gathered on her lashes, glittering there as she bit down on her lips with small, even teeth; not willing to shed tears even when she thought herself alone. Abruptly Sonea placed the book down, stretching her arms above her head before drawing up her knees and hugging her legs.

What compelled Akkarin to continue to stand there, silent and still, the air of the windowless passage seeming to gather around him like a held breath, he couldn't have said. It was almost as if a whisper beckoned within him, some intuition that sang, telling him that this girl, as unlikely as it seemed, was extraordinary. That their fates were somehow entwined, and had been since that rain-drenched night in the Slums three years ago.

Suddenly Sonea lifted her head from its resting place on her knees and looked directly ahead, her dark eyes seeming to stare straight into Akkarin's single eye of shining ebony. A heartbeat passed, and then another, thundering and rapid in his chest, but still he stood there, rooted to the spot, his eye fixed to the secreted hole. There was a look of such unguarded wistfulness on Sonea's pale face – a kind of lostness – that he could not wrench himself away. Then, just as suddenly, her eyes slid blindly away to stare out of the wind buffeted window, an insurgent gust of which sent a chill draught to make silken strands of her hair dance around her head. An involuntary shiver ran down her spine and she quickly glanced back at the wall behind which Akkarin stood.

Akkarin finally moved away, swallowing convulsively and perturbed that he had protruded on her solitude far longer than was necessary to simply ascertain her activity. It was getting late he realised; she would move on soon, stealing herself to return to the residence, to return to him and face him in their daily and unavoidable meeting. It would have been easier on the girl if he had let her skulk in and up to her room, seemingly unnoticed, each night, but Akkarin wanted her to know he _did_ notice her. That he _was_ following her movements – that he was ensuring that she returned at the end of each day.

It had played out over the last week like some childish battle of wills, and something in him had responded and railed against her need to avoid him. Whatever she thought of him, he was not a monster from one of her tales. He was very real, and she had to face the fact that she was _his_ novice now, and lived under _his_ roof. With that thought in his mind he turned silently and retreated down the passageway, his robes billowing, causing dust to swirl in his wake. Sonea was not the only one who had to face reality – however unsettling, someone else shared Akkarin's accommodation now, and he had to find a way of carrying out his work right under her nose.

* * *

It was later than ever that night when Sonea found the courage to return. Despite Akkarin's assumption of defiance, it was actually a suffocating fear of her guardian that kept her away until she somehow dragged the requisite strength from deep within her, which enabled her to stand upright in his presence. As always, her hand never quite reached the door before it opened and she shuffled over the threshold, head bowed already in the required gesture of reverence. It pained her to show him such respect, knowing what he was.

"Good evening Sonea," he murmured as he rose from his chair , making her flinch slightly as she saw him loom in the periphery of her vision. Her skin crawled as she became horribly aware of his scrutiny; cold and impassive she assumed it to be, though she still did not meet his eyes.

"Good evening High Lord, " she managed to croak out in barely more than a whisper.

There was a long moment of laboured silence and Sonea squirmed inwardly. She brought a hand nervously to her shoulder to adjust the leather strap of her satchel, wanting nothing more than to bolt up the stairs to her room – as if walls could protect her from black magic. All of the carefully constructed comfort she had enveloped herself in during the day evaporated and she felt open and vulnerably small in his presence.

What _was_ he doing? He usually greeted her and then dismissed her immediately. But still Sonea could not bring herself to look up, and so she did not know that, whist she was correct about his scrutiny, there was no impassiveness in Akkarin's eyes as the blackness of them seethed like thunderclouds, watching her, though he did not yet know why.

The glow of his globe light fell on her hand as it absently moved the strap of her bag, pulling at the collar of her robes to reveal the ivory of her skin beneath. A crease knitted his brow as he studied her; pale and grim and waning thin. Her exposed collarbone was over sharp and the richness and fluidity of her eyes was now glossed with weariness as she cast them downwards to stare unwaveringly at the floor.

Akkarin noticed the blue leather of the book she had been reading earlier sticking out from the top of her satchel, and an image of her enthralled features came to the forefront of his mind. An urge overcame him to ask her about the book; what it was that had evoked such emotions in her. He had an absurd desire to share in the thing that had made her face shine like that. His lips softly parted, his gaze uncommonly unguarded, though she still did not raise hers to witness it.

Her nervous fidgeting had ceased, and two flaming circles coloured her cheeks. Her discomfort was tangible now and her posture became tautly formal, hands clasped before her. This was excruciating for her, he knew, but she was the novice and he was her guardian, and the sooner she learnt that no amount of sulky defiance would win her even the smallest of victories, the better this arrangement would work – for him, at least.

As he considered her reticence, she tilted her head in her habitual, birdlike way and it occurred to him that she looked beautiful. The involuntary and abrupt thought awoke old memories that pained him. Without knowing it, he took a step towards her, but he did not miss her almost imperceptible flinch, or the way she wrung her hands tighter in an effort to stop them from shaking.

Akkarin sighed and felt a flare of anger. She would never share anything with him, even something as trivial as a book. No, it was best that she was fearful of him; it might stop her from ever doing anything reckless or stupid, and he might then be spared having to do anything about such stupidity. When Akkarin finally spoke, his voice was wearily sharp.

"The mid-break is almost over; I hope that you have sufficiently prepared yourself for your new schedule? Your tutors will expect the High Lord's novice to excel, as will the High Lord."

Sonea blanched a little at his tone, the colour in her cheeks vanishing, but she was determined not to be intimidated.

"Of course, High Lord."

He looked at her a moment more. "A little earlier tomorrow Sonea – for your own good; you look tired tonight."

"Yes High Lord," she mumbled to the stone flags, looking as if she wanted them to swallow her whole.

Akkarin's mouth pulled in a hard line.

"You may go." It came out sharper than intended and he inwardly chastised himself. Sonea hesitated, realising that she would have to pass him to reach the stairs. Then, her resolve hardened, she scurried past, a curtain of mahogany hair intentionally obscuring her face, the brown silk of her robes brushing his, and all the while his black eyes followed her. With a lightness that matched her frame, Sonea sprang up the stairs and on into her room as if flames licked at her heels.

Alone in his guestroom, Akkarin remained unmoving, left only with the embers of Sonea's magical energy that lingered in her wake – so powerful; so bright. Not for the first time, conflicting emotions roiled within him. She would be such a powerful magical source, but it would mean either killing her to take that power, or opening up his secret, his vulnerability, to her and hoping that she could trust him enough to tithe to him as Takan did – either option was unappealing to Akkarin.

Something more mundane, but equally vital and uniquely her, then assailed his physical senses. A faint scent of fragrant sweetness and citrus herbs filled his nose and his nostrils flared. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, exposing the rapid pulse of his jugular vein. The aloofness he wore like armour began to erode by infinitesimal degrees. How long had it been since he had even noticed such things as the scent of a woman? The exact tone of her skin and the way in which she moved? Too long, and yet not long enough. Never again - he had promised.

Not liking the turn his thoughts had taken, Akkarin growled softly, a low guttural noise in his throat, and he strode to a bookcase, plucking a book off the shelf that he had read more than once before. Slumping down in a chair he opened it randomly and stared blindly at its pages, but he saw only Sonea's bright, open face as she had indulged in the same activity earlier. He snapped the book shut and threw it unceremoniously on the low table in front of him. Rising gracefully, despite his mood, he moved purposefully over to the wine cabinet. He opened it and reached in, curling long fingers around a bottle. His lips twisted in what might have been the dark cousin of a smile as he filled a wine goblet to the brim. Whilst, practically, having a novice was far less trouble than he had expected, emotionally, it was turning out to be much more complicated than he could ever have imagined.

**A/N: Thanks for reading and please review!**


	14. Chapter 13 Akkarin's Decision

**Chapter 13 – Akkarin's Decision**

Kariko sat hunched on the ground at the foot of a stony outcrop where he had set up camp nearby for the last two months. He had moved on from his previous settlement when he had finally conceded that the slave he had sent into Imardin would not return.

The sallow-skinned Ichani was pulled back on his haunches, crouching in the shadows of overhanging rock. Night still filled the naturally formed alcove, surly in its banishment as, beyond, the sandy landscape was becoming flushed with the gentle pink light of the rising sun that crept over the horizon.

All night Kariko had sat in brooding contemplation, thinking of the last slave that he had freed and sent into the Kyralian capital. He scowled, his teeth flashing in the gloom, as he recalled the final image the slave had sent through the blood gem he carried before darkness had descended:- a tall, black clad man, his face lost in shadow and magical blurring as his hand reached forwards to take the remaining life from the unfortunate slave. Kariko's scowl deepened; the slave had been stronger than the others, and more valuable.

Now, the Sachakan's thoughts focused on the stranger's hand; strong, but with long and elegant fingers and pale skin. Kariko knew that hand, different as it was to the and squatter hands of the native Sachakans and the smaller hands of the people of Elyne. Yes, he had seen his brother break the bones in that hand more than once, vexed as Dakova used to be as to how quickly and true the bones seemed to knit back together.

_Akkarin, _Kariko thought. _Dakova's pet. _He had come a long way since he had escaped – High Lord of the Guild no less. The sharp faced Ichani made a guttural sound and spat on the floor, his lip curling in a contemptuous sneer for Akkarin's elevated position. He pushed himself up off the dusty ground and stepped out into the watery light of dawn. He stretched, easing his aching muscles as he watched with detached contemplation as slaves appeared from tents below and began to busy themselves with the chores of the new day.

"Akkarin..." Kariko muttered to himself thoughtfully in a thin and rasping voice. "It is always you," he mused as his amber eyes narrowed shrewdly.

"He tries to conceal himself, but I know my brother's pet when I see him." The words, though soft , sounded harsh with disdain in Kariko's native tongue.

"Why do no others kill the slaves?" he pondered, his eyes narrowing as he stared blindly at his own pavilion, which stood tallest and most opulent in the midst of its shabbier neighbours.

"Surely such menial killings are beneath their great leader? Unless..." and again his eyes narrowed and his lip curled. "Unless he has still not revealed his secret and no-one else yet knows about higher magic, as I thought."

Kariko stood still as the rocks around him as he considered a moment more.

"I think it is time to strike Akkarin closer to home, within the Guild where he least expects it. Yes!" Kariko let out a bark of laughter, pleased with himself and his decision. It was time to test Akkarin in his precious stronghold and maybe some useful information could be also found out. At the least it might shake the Kyralian magician's confidence and take him by surprise, though it would mean Kariko would have to risk his most powerful slave.

The dark-skinned man's heavy brows drew together, his cold amusement tempered, but his resolve remained. He cursed as a sudden gust of wind whipped sand into his face, stinging his eyes, before he hastily created a shield around himself and strode purposefully towards his camp. His calculating eyes roved in search of the muscular slave he sought - a slave who had a magical potential to match his imposing physical presence.

"Kazook!" Kariko shouted impatiently. "Kazook! Come, where are you? Today is your lucky day..."

* * *

_Rothen clasped the hand of the woman as tightly as he dared. It felt skeletal under his fingers, the papery skin clinging to the bones. He brought the hand to his lips and brushed them gently over it before placing it down on the crisp white bed sheet. He leaned forwards and tenderly brushed a wisp of golden brown hair from the pale face, his fingers lingering. He stared intently at the woman, drinking in every detail, though it pained him, and he knew that she would not want him to remember her this way. _

_The rise and fall of her breast underneath the blanket was absurdly vigorous given the situation, but its intermittent irregularity , together with the rasping and laboured breath it produced, told the truth of the circumstances. The purely instinctive and physical part of Rothen could not deny it, though his mind still tried._

_The woman's face was peaceful, belying the losing battle that her vitals were desperately fighting within her. She had been beautiful once, but now she wore that mortal mask that seemed to homogenise all features in these last hours of life._

_Rothen held a wad of water soaked cotton to the woman's dry lips, fulfilling the words of binding he had spoken on that happy day so few years ago; his younger self could never have imagined that the promise of care-giving in sickness would come so soon. His eyes brimmed, though he smiled through his tears as he recalled happier times, and many of them; the bitter-sweetness of the memories took his breath away and it hitched in his throat._

"_We've had a good life, haven't we? We have been happy together Yilara." The tears over spilled and ran down his face; maybe she could hear - the thought comforted him. The click of a door startled him and he turned to see Vinara enter the room, her face full of care and compassion. She glanced with a Healer's eye to the woman in the bed._

"_It won't be long now Rothen," she murmured softly. _

_A cold feeling of despair washed over the alchemist as the words confirmed his fears. His stomach clenched and he railed suddenly against the inevitable._

"_Is there nothing more you can do? There must be something!" His voice, tight with emotion echoed harshly around the room. A blind and irrational anger gripped the usually gentle man._

"_You have never forgiven me for choosing her – you have not tried your best for her; there must be something else!" And he glanced accusingly at Vinara, his features twisted almost beyond recognition._

_Vinara was used to the many grief-filled utterances at such times, and knew well that they were rashly spoken and instantly regretted – a means only to vent anger at feelings of helplessness. Nevertheless, the Healer could not help but feel hurt at Rothen's words_

"_That is not fair," she said quietly. "As a magician, you know the limitations of even Healers in the case of some diseases."_

_Rothen's face abruptly crumpled in mortification and horror at his words._

"_Vinara," he pleaded, "please, forgive me; I know you've done everything you could." Fresh tears welled. "It's just...Dorrien is only nine; he needs her. __I__ need her," he added in a whisper, turning back to his wife._

"_I know." Vinara stepped forwards and placed a hand on the alchemist's arm and he clasped it gratefully. "But you still have each other, and through you both, and many others, she will live on. That will bring you comfort one day – I promise," and she sat down beside him, taking his hand._

_The Healer, the Alchemist and his wife, held hands; a chain of support to give Rothen and Yilara the strength to take this final journey together – a cruel, but inevitable separation, yet it had come too soon._

_Silently they sat there, no words for this moment, until Yilara's chest at last heaved violently in convulsion as her loyal and steadfast heart tried in vain to keep its keeper alive – but the battle was lost, and with a rasping sigh, Yilara's body accepted defeat._

_Rothen's own heart quickened with adrenalin as he realised the parting he had long dreaded had come. He turned to Vinara, the pain raw in his eyes and difficult to behold._

"_I will never talk to her again, will I?" The magnitude of such a simple thing hit him like a tidal wave. Vinara, filled with her own grief, could say nothing – Yilara had been a good friend. Rothen turned back to his wife and stroked her still warm cheek._

"My love. _Even after all this time, there is still so much I had to say. Now it is too late; too late..."_

"...late, my Lord. My lord?"

The voice sounded anxious and it was this that broke through Rothen's reminiscences . He glanced around him, a frown of bemusement creasing his brow for a moment. He was sat in a comfortable chair of his guestroom, as he often did when he needed to clear his head. He turned towards the voice and looked up into the concerned face of Tania. His frown deepened and he shook his head.

"I'm sorry, did you say something?"

Tania's mouth tightened and she too frowned.

"Just that it's late, my lord, and you still haven't eaten the meal I left for you earlier," she paused, "are you feeling unwell?"

The magician glanced to the small table where a cold platter of food sat untouched. His glance then returned to the window that he had been staring fixedly out of, across to the greyness of the High Lord's residence, its ghostly paleness clearly outlined against the deep indigo of the night sky. Rothen managed a weak smile for his servant, hoping it would reassure her.

"I'm quite well. I...," he sighed and scratched his brow, not sure if he wanted to make this admission." I was watching for her light to appear in her window. There," and Tania followed the line of his finger as he pointed to a black square of a window in the building opposite. "That's her room, I think."

He knew Tania would go scurrying, albeit with the best of intentions, to Yaldin and Ezrille with the news that he sat waiting for Sonea to arrive in her room each night.

"She is later than ever tonight." He smiled humourlessly. "I don't know if I am relieved, or not, when I see that she has returned there every night."

Tania looked bemused. "I don't understand, my lord."

Rothen's mouth pulled in an unhappy line. "It doesn't matter."

He stood up suddenly. "She is not my concern now, I must accept it." His emphatic, brisk tone did not convince Tania. Rothen looked over at the full plate of breads, cheeses and fruit.

"I'm sorry Tania. No need to wait for the plates – I'll take them down to the kitchens when I'm done. You go on home now."

Rothen smiled his encouragement though Tania still hesitated. The magician shooed her with waving hands.

"Go!" He exclaimed kindly. "I'm fine – really," he added with as much conviction as he could.

"Good night then, my lord," and the servant turned with a last frowning glance.

"Good night Tania. I'll see you in the morning."

Once Tania had left the room, Rothen looked back to the window, and with abrupt decisiveness, he strode over and pulled the shutters firmly closed, blocking the view of the building opposite. Sonea was just in the library with Tya, where, he had found out, she often sought refuge. His worrying was preposterous and paranoid -Regin would not dare touch her now that she was the High Lord's favourite; that was one small mercy at least. Whether she was safe from Akkarin himself though, was another matter altogether.

* * *

"Master, if there is nothing else you require, I will retire."

Takan stood expectantly at the door to his master's study. The High Lord looked up from the parchment on which he was writing, and carefully placed down his pen before leaning backwards and arching his back.

"Of course Takan. Good night," he replied and he turned his attention back to his papers, reading over what he had just written.

The Sachakan servant remained at the door, hesitating, his amber eyes uncertain. Again Akkarin glanced up beneath dark brows.

"Takan? Is there something you wished to talk to me about?"

"It's Viola master. She was wondering if she might be released for the night also." And a look of fleeting concern passed over Takan's face.

Akkarin frowned, perplexed. "Of course," he replied, glancing out of the window at the moon. "It's late – gone midnight. Why is she still here?"

Takan shifted uneasily. "Though she is not the most personable of servants, she _is_ thorough and does not shirk her duty; she never retires before she has seen to her mistresses last needs. Sonea has not yet returned." Again a shadow of concern played across the Sachakan's features.

Akkarin's frown vanished, his eyebrows rising in surprise. He leaned back in his chair, pushing himself from the desk, and his eyes glazed over for a moment before they snapped back into focus. He looked at Takan with consternation.

"No, she has not, " he stated levelly before standing abruptly and running his fingers across his brow, though his expression remained impassive.

"Takan, would you please escort Viola back to her quarters with my apologies..."

"But, Lady Sonea, master," Takan interjected, "where is she? Are you not worried?" The servant could not hide his concern now, though whether for Sonea's wellbeing, or for fear of her flight, Akkarin could not tell.

Once more, the High Lord's black eyes became distant with concentration and, as Takan watched intently, the magician's mouth pursed and his face paled slightly.

"Master?"

Akkarin's jaw clenched. "I cannot sense her energy – there is nothing; I do not know where she is."

Akkarin thought back over the evening's events. When he had returned to the residence from a meeting with the king's advisors, he had sought for his novice's magical 'scent', and had found her to be in the library, as was not uncommon. He had smiled grimly to himself – anything to avoid being under his roof, even stacking books. Akkarin had then retired to his study to attend to correspondences that he had neglected lately.

So absorbed had he been in his task, that Takan's request to retire a few minutes ago was the first time he had placed down his pen. He had not noticed Sonea's failure to arrive, and now it was well past the latest hour that she had ever dared to return, and he could not locate her position within the Guild.

"And I told Lorlen that her guardianship was not as troublesome as I feared," he muttered under his breath. He glanced back at Takan who still stood, his hand on the door frame, waiting expectantly.

"Go Takan – take Viola, and do not show any concern about Sonea's absence. If she pries, give her the impression that I knew, and authorised, her late arrival, and that I overlooked informing her. Again, give her my apologies and emphasise that there is nothing to be concerned about."

"But you are, aren't you master?" Takan asked tentatively.

"I will deal with this," Akkarin answered brusquely. "There is probably an innocent explanation. Go. Now, please, and I will see you on your return, when, I assure you, Sonea will be back under this roof and in no confusion about what is an appropriate hour in which to return." He turned away then and looked out of the window, his arms folded across his chest.

"I have tried not to restrict her freedom, but she has pushed me too far on this matter," he muttered to the blackness that hung like a curtain beyond the glass. He turned and opened his mouth to say something more to Takan, but stopped suddenly, placing his hands on the back of his desk chair. A deep furrow knitted his brow and his black eyes roved over his desk as he watched with growing disbelief as a scene unfolded in his inner vision; a scene witnessed, not by himself, but by Lorlen.

She was so weak that she all but fell down the university steps, restrained only by Lorlen's quick reflexes. Akkarin knew, before his friend, why she was so exhausted; why he had not been able to detect her power just now .

The High Lord's grip on the chair increased and his knuckles went white. How had her vast power been extinguished? Akkarin's first thought was Ichani slaves, but she would be dead now if that was the case. He quickly pushed that thought away and , in the next instant, he felt a surge of anger as Lorlen's mind revealed the Administrator's assumption that _he_ was to blame for Sonea's plight. But the sight of her distracted the High Lord, and his anger quickly abated as other, unfamiliar, emotions usurped it.

Appalled, he watched on as Sonea collapsed heavily against her drawn up knees, unable to support even her own small weight. She rubbed at her face in a childlike and bemused gesture, as if trying to wipe away her fatigue. Not making his presence known, Akkarin listened to Lorlen's thoughts as his friend reached the likely conclusion that the novice Regin was responsible in some way.

The Black Magician's scowl matched the Administrator's and, as one, they realised that Sonea would never tell her guardian about this abuse.

"I will let Akkarin know what is going on if you like." _If he's listening now he'll already know. _A vision of Akkarin's blood ring, encircling Lorlen's finger, came into the High Lord's mind as Lorlen looked down at it.

"No. Don't. Please." The anxiety in Sonea's voice was evident, despite its faltering weakness. Akkarin felt a stab of annoyance. Sonea had confided in Rothen about Regin's bullying, and yet she would not even allow someone else to raise the issue with himself. A wry smile twisted Akkarin's mouth. But then, why would she? Akkarin was as much her enemy as Regin was – more so. How could she know that, whilst forced upon him, the High Lord had taken on the mantle of her guardianship both sincerely and in earnest?

Even as Sonea smiled at Lorlen's offer of help, sudden realisation dawned upon Akkarin. Rothen was a kindly alchemist; he was High Lord of the Guild – its greatest warrior. Black Magician and in fear of her life or not, she would never have told him – her pride would not let her.

Akkarin's grip on the chair relaxed and, to Takan's bemusement, he laughed softly to himself. The annoyance he had felt melted away and was replaced by a grudging understanding and respect. In the Slums, to show your weakness was to make you vulnerable, maybe dangerously so, and it was not a lesson that Sonea had forgotten. As a novice, Akkarin knew that _he_ would not have admitted a defeat such as the one she had suffered tonight either.

His mirth faded abruptly as he focused on her huddled form again, and he nodded with grim approval as Lorlen bolstered Sonea with Healing energy. Satisfied, he brought is consciousness back to the room, into his physical domain, and he addressed Takan.

"Sonea will be here shortly," Akkarin said, and the relief on his servant's face was quickly followed by a quizzical frown. The Sachakan made to speak, but the High Lord forestalled his questions.

"It seems that a novice, or more likely novices," and Akkarin's features darkened, "have become bold enough to resume their bullying of Sonea. I don't know how, but it seems they almost completely drained her of her magical energy tonight."

Takan's frown remained, though his demeanour visibly relaxed.

"What will you do about it?"

"Nothing – for the moment." Akkarin's tone was stern as he perfunctorily gathered up his papers, stacking them neatly.

"But..."

Akkarin straightened and moved around his desk and glided to the door. "She does not wish me to know, and I will respect that. The girl has few choices left to her."

To himself , he thought: _She is resilient - her life in the Slums has seen to that. If she is backed into a corner, her survival instincts will prevail - _he recalled the mortally injured slave she had knifed. _She will fight back, and she may learn more about her own powers than can ever be taught to her - I hope._

Takan's expression became incredulous. "It is a_ choice _to be bullied?"

"No. It is a choice as to how you deal with such cowardly behaviour, and that choice may shape your future," a graceful brow shot up as he held Takan's shocked stare, "in more ways than one."

"Or leave you hurt and injured - or worse." Takan countered, appalled at his master's decision. Akkarin walked past him and out of the door.

"Oh don't worry, I will be keeping a close eye on Regin and his followers now. No lasting harm will come to her – I promise you that."

The Sachakan glanced the darkly implacable glare of Akkarin's eyes, and he did not doubt his words.

"Could you tell Viola not to disturb Sonea at her usual hour in the morning," the High Lord continued. "I think a sudden and pressing matter for the tutor of her first class tomorrow is about to arise," his mouth curled at the edges, "I foresee that the class will be cancelled."

A smile of complicit understanding spread over Takan's face, and he turned and hurried off down the corridor, leaving the High Lord alone. Akkarin stood a moment, his face grim and thoughtful, then, he swept decisively to his bedroom and, opening the door, he stepped inside and quietly shut it behind him.

* * *

Despite Lorlen's Healing energy, Sonea's feet felt leaden as she climbed the steps up to the front door of the residence. She stood before the large wooden door for several long moments, unsteady and with her head feeling as if it were cocooned in cotton sheets, and not entirely belonging to the rest of her body. Though she desperately craved the softness and swaddling comfort of her bed, she needed, more than ever, to collect herself before facing the High Lord tonight.

As her eyes strained to focus, a shooting pain shot through her temples and her eyes pricked with tears. She bit down hard on her lip, causing her to gasp softly. She had not shed any real tears since she had become Akkarin's novice, but this night, Sonea knew with grim certainty, that one harsh or reproving word from him and her resolve, battered with weariness, may well break and the floodgates open; she would not even have the energy to run from his presence and up to her room.

The thought of crying in front of Akkarin cleared her head a little. She could not hide her misery from such a sharply intelligent and observant man such as him, but she would rather die than let him have the satisfaction of seeing her reduced to tears. Sonea knew that the chances of a reprimand were high this evening, given the extremely late hour of her arrival. She drew in a long steady breath and felt the tightness of her throat ease a little, then, with a shaking hand, she reached for the door handle and it opened as soon as her fingers brushed it.

She entered the guestroom, but it was unusually dark and gloomy. Sonea exhaled slowly– he was not there! Her own globe light brightened as a breath of hope caught in her throat. Her eyes, dull and tired, quickly scanned the room , checking that he was not in some shadowed corner, ready to pounce. As she realised that the room was truly empty, relief fluttered in her stomach. She jumped as, in the direction of the kitchen, a door snapped shut, echoing through the otherwise silent building.

Sonea moved as swiftly as she could manage towards the stairs, not wanting to chance her luck further; for, indeed, it was luck she took it to be that Akkarin was absent. She assumed without question that if the High Lord were at home, he would never retire upstairs until the daily encounter with his novice was over. She had convinced herself from the outset that the High Lord took some perverse pleasure in seeing her discomfort and unhappiness. No, he would not spare her; fortune had granted her some small recompense given what she had been through tonight - that was all.

That there was another, more altruistic, reason for his absence from the guestroom, Sonea did not even consider...

The Black Magician lay, fully clothed, on his bed and stared up at the ceiling. The window was un-shuttered and the pale moonlight painted ghostly patterns above him. He gazed unwaveringly at them as light, shuffling footsteps passed his door. A couple of times, as they made their way down the corridor, they faltered and stopped and Akkarin was fervently glad that he had spared Sonea the usual meeting with him downstairs. A spark of anger flickered within him as he imagined what Regin and done to her.

He let out a deep sigh. Maybe it was himself he was sparing - from the sight of Sonea in such a state. His aloof detachment had been well tested over the years, but he had found Sonea's presence in the residence to be a new kind of trial on his resolve. He ran a hand over his face and closed his eyes wearily as he heard her door finally click shut. He was her guardian - _could_ he sit back, knowing that others might be causing her suffering? For his sake, he was beginning to doubt it; but if it meant her being better prepared for future, and greater, dangers, he knew that he would.

**A/N : As always, many thanks to my readers - the next chapter is always for you. And to my reviewers/followers/favouriters, you keep my muse well-fed and happy - thankyou!**

**Especial thanks to Aranka Bloemberg, Riemann, Kyralian, Red Cat Lotty, Jessleo 89 and Aletheya :- your support of the last chapter was what I needed to cement my decision to continue with this. Life is busy-busy, so, though this chapter came quickly, updates may be irregular.**

**Thanks again!**


	15. Chapter 14 Something Else

**Chapter 14 – Something Else**

Akkarin skidded around a corner, breathing heavily as he broke into a long gaited run. Whisperings beyond the wall that he strained hard to hear with his physical and magical senses, echoed incoherently in his head. The energy of several magicians flashed by wildly, and amongst them all, Akkarin quickly focused on one person's power in particular – it was not hard, for it shone brighter than the rest. Sonea.

As footsteps grew louder, he lunged at a seemingly ordinary wooden panel, and it gave way easily beneath his carefully placed hand. His heart thrummed rapidly in his chest as the panel snapped shut behind him, plunging him into darkness. He stood perfectly still a moment, gasping, as he listened intently to the light, quick tap of footsteps crossing the portal room he had just vacated, and not a moment too soon. Akkarin was not the prey in this chase, yet his every nerve tingled in heightened anticipation.

A swift surge of gleaming power seared his consciousness. He turned his head towards it, his eyes large and utterly void of colour in the darkness. Sonea was making for the main passageway.

_Clever girl, _Akkarin thought. Avoiding a confrontation when you were outnumbered was a wise choice. Regin would not risk an attack on a main thoroughfare_, _even at night. The black magician's mouth twitched in mild amusement. Evading a nimble Sonea whilst she tried to out-manoeuvre her would-be assailants certainly kept his knowledge of the secret corridors honed, not to mention his reflexes and muscles. A door slammed shut, and urgent whispering reached his ears and broke his pondering. He stalked swiftly down the passage; a faint globe-light illuminated the uneven and dirty floor before him as he clung to his novice's magical essence, following it.

He hurried round a twist in the passage and instantly recoiled as he stepped into such a strong echo of Sonea's power that he thought he must have collided straight into her. His mouth tightened and he snorted softly in consternation as he realised she must be just beyond the wall in the adjacent corridor. At that moment a heavy thud vibrated the wall and startled him. The unmistakable sound of contemptuous sniggering reached his ears. His face became grim; so she had not quite made it then.

Akkarin's pulse quickened again and he stalked down the passageway a short distance to where he knew there to be a spy hole. In the wooden panelling of the main corridor, a shining, jet-black glint appeared, but the occupants of the corridor did not notice it – their attention was on a dark-haired girl that lay sprawled on the floor.

The High Lord quickly surveyed the scene. Regin and four others stood facing his vantage point, and more novices arrived as he watched. He could not see Sonea at first, but guessed from the down-cast gazes of her assailants that she was on the floor, and that the impact he had heard just now had been her colliding with the wall. His novice had not been shielding when she ran then. Akkarin's jaw tightened as annoyance gripped him - and something else.

His resolve to respect Sonea's wish that he should not know of the bullying she endured had strengthened since the night that Lorlen had found her, exhausted. He had felt a kinship with her pride, and had no desire to bruise it further than he already had. He had thought about his decision much since then, and now other motives entirely stopped him from intervening.

For a girl who was too scared to use her full strength in the controlled environment of Warrior classes, a fight for her own wellbeing might prove the only effective lesson in improving her skills. And if neglecting basic things such as failing to shield during a pursuit was anything to go by, she needed as many lessons as she could get. Living under the same roof as a magician whom the Ichani were bent on destroying was not the safest place for a young novice to find herself; she needed to be able to defend herself.

However, as the High Lord took in the vehement scowl on Regin's face, he saw everything he most despaired of, and despised, in the most privileged citizens of Imardin. An ignorant hate, born of arrogant superiority. His stomach clenched and his bile rose. Cold logic had governed Akkarin since his return from Sachaka, but as he stood unseen, his eye pressed up to the secreted hole, his pragmatism did battle with other emotions. His duty as a guardian was to protect his novice; to offer help when needed.

_I __am__ protecting her - from future dangers. _Akkarin attempted to quell his inner doubts. _Sonea needs to be able to defend herself, and if that means letting this self-important, upstart from House Paren loose on her, then so be it! It makes no difference to me how she learns, just as long as she does. _He drew in a determined breath, though his fists balled tightly at his side.

_Fool..._A deep voice within him whispered, but he could not hear it above the clamour of foreign thoughts on the edge of his mind. Thoughts with a very common, and ugly, thread.

Regin continued to leer, and the other faces in Akkarin's line of vision were similarly full of confidence. They knew now, from experience, that there would be no reprisals for their actions. Sonea would tell no-one. Akkarin's scowl deepened at their arrogance. How satisfying it would be to suddenly appear in the corridor and wipe the smug grins off their faces. The thought of the novices' horrified faces momentarily turned the High Lord's frown into a malevolent smile. It did not last.

A figure moved into his line of sight, a little down the corridor. Her back was turned to him, so that he could not see her face as she gazed steadily at Regin, but at least he could hear the faint hum of her shield now. Sonea stood still, though her gait betrayed her uncertainty as Regin produced the sweet box and made his vindictive intentions clear with words laboured with sarcasm. To Akkarin the sweets looked unremarkable, but he guessed from Regin's promise to feed them to Sonea, and from the wrinkled noses of those closest to them, that they were anything but the confectionary they appeared to be.

Akkarin's dark eyes narrowed in revulsion and he felt an abrupt flare of anger towards Lord Garrel – for surely he knew about, and even authorised, this cowardly behaviour of his nephew's; behaviour that should have been beneath the warrior's dignity and contempt.

Suddenly strikes seared the air, battering Sonea's shield and gathering in strength as others joined the attack.

_Come on Sonea; you are outnumbered. You need to out-think them. Do not rely on your power alone. _Akkarin willed Sonea into action. Anything - an illusion; the blinding trick she had used before. But formidable as the High Lord was, his powers did not stretch to influencing another person's actions.

Sonea turned then, as if she _had _heard her guardian's thoughts, or felt his presence, but it was only to assess her predicament as she pushed with forcestrike against the novices who were blocking her path to the main thoroughfare, and so to safety. She moved slowly, as though her feet were mired in sand, nearer and nearer to Akkarin's position beyond the wall. As she came into full view, he could clearly see the strain on her face which told how much maintaining her shield, and taking those few precious steps, cost her.

Akkarin's lips pursed in frustration, but then, as Sonea came within arms reach of his hidden position, his black eye also saw the determined resolve in the tilt of her chin and the set of her small jaw. Regin could do his worst, Akkarin thought grimly to himself, but he would never achieve his aim – to intimidate and frighten Sonea from the Guild. Her life had given her a spirit that Garrel's nephew and his cohorts could never understand, but the man that stood behind the wall, watching, did. He understood everything about her; but not about himself.

Her shield finally failed, along with her power, and Regin and his supporters did not waste time with more taunts. Stunstrike, from in front and behind Sonea's position, hit her with full force. Her eyes widened for an instant before they squeezed shut. She did not cry out, only inhaled sharply, but her body betrayed her and she collapsed, her knees hitting the tiles with a thud before she pitched forwards like a ragdoll.

Akkarin's glittering black eye filled the spy hole and, he too, gasped as a sharp pain lanced through his knuckles. Looking down briefly, he realised his hand had shot out to break Sonea's fall and had collided forcibly with the stone wall. Wiping the blood from his grazed skin absently across his robes, he turned back to the small hole in the wall. He felt a strange numbness descend on him as he watched whilst stunstrike continued to convulse through Sonea's small frame. And yet, as like to numbness as fire is to ice, there was something else that roiled within him.

The black magician pulled back, a pang of heartache surging in spite of all his efforts at aloofness. Then, abruptly, he stalked briskly down the passageway to the door that entered on to the main corridor. He stood, resting his forehead against the dusty wood, and his fingertips hovered on the latch that would release the panel. He closed his eyes, his breathing hard. He bit down hard on his lip and he tasted the metallic warmth of blood.

She needed this. It was the only way he could think of for her to learn effectively. Her survival one day might depend on it. Akkarin's stomach protested his mind's logic as he thought of Sonea, wrapped around herself in pain on the floor just a few paces away. Before he could debate with himself further, his finger pressed on the latch, opening a crack in the wooden panel with a soft click. The novices were intent on Sonea as she lay, Regin crinkling the sweet paper under her nose.

"What is going on here?"

It was not Akkarin's, but Yikmo's voice that sternly filled the corridor, halting Regin in his tracks. The High Lord drew back from the opening, lingering only long enough to see the Warrior send the novices reprovingly on their way. Then silently, Akkarin pushed the panel back into place and, heart still racing in his chest, he stole down the dusty passageway, his features were as black as his robes.

A dull throb pulsed in his right hand and a globe light flared softly to life above his head. Akkarin glanced down to examine his grazed and bruised knuckles, flexing his fingers as he sent a thread of Healing energy. He watched in detached fascination as the skin knitted together and the swelling reduced, erasing all evidence of the powerful instinct that had caused him to slam his hand into the wall in his futile attempt to break his novice's fall.

_I would have reacted the same way to the sight of any woman falling, _he thought emphatically.

And yet, there _was_ something else.

* * *

From beneath dark lashes, Sonea glanced furtively across the table at her dining companion. She had always found short hair to be more useful in her previous life in the Slums, but now she gratefully retreated behind the curtain of near-black silk that skimmed her shoulders and obscured her face. The meal had become a weekly event and Sonea found the inescapable and prolonged scrutiny it brought excruciating, though, she admitted to herself, it was somewhat mitigated by the exquisite and lavish food that was served.

Whilst Sonea squirmed during the silence between mouthfuls of food, and flushed or blanched at the questions between courses, Akkarin always appeared relaxed; his features at times suggesting amused enjoyment which Sonea concluded was as a result of her own clear discomfort.

Takan entered the room and stacked empty bowls and plates skilfully onto a silver tray. As the High Lord murmured something to his servant about the food, Sonea chanced another surreptitious glance at her guardian.

At close quarters he was more formidable, she thought, than he seemed at a distance; his easy grace made faintly intimidating by his height and bearing, and by the unremitting steadiness of his black eyes.

Black eyes...

Sonea visibly jumped as she realised Akkarin was starring at her, his lips pursed in a suppressed smile. She quickly looked down and studied her own hands intently, her fingers linking together nervously in the absence of any other activity. Akkarin's deep, smooth voice made her jump again, causing her to squeeze her fingers in annoyance with herself. He was a man – only a man – after all, and here she was behaving like a small child caught stealing by the city guard. But he was a black magician nonetheless, she reminded herself; she was right to be wary.

"I make you uncomfortable." It was statement, spoken quietly, as if to himself, then he smiled, openly before adding: "I am sorry."

Sonea flushed pink, not knowing how to respond. She sensed irony in Akkarin's words, and did not want to guess at the reason for it. She reached hastily for her wine goblet and took a larger than intended mouthful. Akkarin frowned slightly, running a long finger around the rim of his own glass. Sonea's dark eyes followed it and she wondered briefly at the elegance of a hand that had most likely killed – maybe several times. A shiver scraped down her spine and she looked away.

"It is the King's Races the freeday after next; it is almost a rite of passage for novices to go. They are allowed into the Guild's pavilion, and so are afforded the full privileges of being a magician – even before graduation. I can arrange an allowance for you, if you like, so that you may go. Many of your friends will be there – as will I." He added with a wry smile.

_To check I don't run, no doubt, _Sonea thought before looking up quickly, almost angrily.

"They are not _my _friends." She responded with soft vehemence. Akkarin's eyes narrowed.

"Sons and daughters' of the Houses do not associate with a girl from the Slums – is that it?" he asked.

He saw her face cloud and realised with faint surprise that she was stung by his words. The slight had been intended against her classmates, and to take the edge from the remark he added:

"Then they must be more foolish than they seem."

Gratified, he saw some of the hurt in her face fade, but her defensiveness remained.

"Besides," she continued, " I wouldn't know a thoroughbred from a mule; I am not as well acquainted with horses as magicians are." The words were out before she could stop them, and she inwardly winced, cursing their boldness. She held her breath; maybe the covert jibe was lost on Akkarin.

It was not.

"The Houses pay_ very _good money for our Healers to tend to their horses; money that is needed for the upkeep of other parts of the Guild. Though we have generous allowances from the King, we do have to partially fund ourselves." Akkarin leaned back and made a casual, dismissive gesture with his hand.

"Also," he added, " the gratitude of the Houses has its uses beyond the financial."

"Whilst the gratitude of the dwells has no benefit, so why bother offering aid when they are sick – is that it?" She echoed his earlier comment.

If her previous words were bold, then these were insolent, and Sonea knew it. Her head spun slightly from the High Lord's preferred choice of strong wine that she was still not used to, and her mouth went dry as she realised the repeated treachery of her tongue. Heat seemed to spread upwards from her chest until she felt as if her cheeks flamed. She gulped convulsively and reached for her glass again, thinking recklessly that the wine might fortify her against her guardian's certain rebuke for her impertinence. She made to lift the glass but it did not move, as if it were stuck to the table.

"The wine has emboldened you, Sonea. Maybe you should not have anymore."

To her surprise the words were soft and filled with detached amusement; her name, spoken in his resonant voice, carried an unfamiliar, yet appealing, lilt. Curiosity overcame her fear and annoyance, and she looked up to meet his darkly implacable gaze. If Sonea was an open book to Akkarin, then the High Lord was completely unreadable to his novice, and she would rather not guess at his thoughts.

Akkarin tilted his head, considering the young woman before him. Her determined ferocity amused him. Despite her trepidation of what she thought he was, Sonea's instinctual loyalty to her fellow dwells usurped that fear. She was proving to be anything but the ignorant and worthless nonentity that many Guild members took her to be. As wearisome as her reticence could be, Sonea was certainly far removed from the simpering court women that he was used to, and for some inexplicable reason, Akkarin found that pleasing.

He laughed softly, and Sonea turned away sharply, her small set of shoulders squared proudly, though she wrapped her arms around her middle in a childlike gesture of self protection. Her flush deepened as she struggled to maintain her composure. Sonea felt he was laughing at her and anger began to rise with the same intensity as her colour. Whilst her instinct for survival curbed her unruly tongue, it did not silence it completely.

"Mock me if it entertains you," she muttered bitterly, but she did not meet his eyes. Akkarin sighed in chagrin as the momentary amusement gave way to irritation.

"I do not _mock _you, I..." Akkarin stopped suddenly and sat back heavily in his chair.

"Believe what you like," his said coldly, his eyes lighting angrily, "but I assure you that I have better things to do with my time than amuse myself at the expense of young women!"

Akkarin sighed again and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and finger. When he spoke again, the words were soft and laced with weariness.

"For the sake of dessert – peace, Sonea! Takan will never forgive me if I rob you of your appetite before the last course."

Sonea's dark eyes sparkled, and her cheek clenched in an effort to bridle her spirit. Akkarin looked on in fascination as the colour gradually faded in her face until it blanched to its usual pale hue. The rebellious light in her eyes was quelled, replaced by the usual wary fear. He waited until he was sure she had regained her composure before attempting conversation once more, changing to a subject he hoped would put her more at ease.

"You are progressing well in Healing I am told. You like the discipline because you think it offers something to the many, and not just the few?"

Sonea kept her head bowed but inclined it slightly in the affirmative.

Quietly; tentatively – "You must have seen much suffering in your life that you think the Healers here could have prevented, or helped with." Akkarin knew that Sonea would not welcome pity, and so was careful in his tone. He did not want to alienate her again so soon. It would make the situation easier to bear for them both if they could converse, at least about her studies, in a civilised manner.

Again, the slight drop of her chin, though, this time, her eyes flickered to his for an instant, but it was long enough for the High Lord to detect an emotion he knew well himself – pain. He considered fleetingly, but not for the first time, that he had more in common with his novice than his peers would ever wager. His cool expression gave way to the familiar half-smile, but there was a faint trace of warmth in it. As was often the case, her gaze was averted and she did not see.

Akkarin recalled a memory from Sonea's mind; faded, remembered more in sensations of loss and confusion rather than images. But one face stood out clearly. Pale, flawless skin; rich, brown eyes; softly curving lips and shining mahogany hair – beautiful. Like Sonea's own, but of years that his novice had not yet reached. Understanding dawned upon him.

"Your mother," he murmured, half to himself, before focusing on her intently. Sonea turned to him then, a frown creasing her brow, and she regarded him with wary uncertainty but she did not speak.

"Lorlen told me your mother died of an illness when you were still young," he continued. "You are drawn to Healing because you hope to help people such as her." It was a statement, not a question, and he saw the flash of irritation in her face at the realisation that he read her so easily.

"How old were you?"

"I was five."

Akkarin's eyes narrowed in thought. Thirteen years ago; the same time the city was plagued by...

"The wasting illness?"

"Yes," she answered, her voice quiet.

"She could not have been saved by the Healers; she would have died sooner or later." Akkarin's tone was perfunctory, though not unkind.

A memory of that first loss surged up from a corner of her mind, and with it came that first feeling of a different kind – injustice and the burning bitterness of it, keenly felt at such a young age. The remembered fury of the adults around her as more and more dwells succumbed to the pestilence that swept through Imardin whilst they imagined the Healers of the Guild to be lying idle and doing nothing to help; healing only the rich - and their horses.

But Sonea was not that five year old anymore, and her knowledge of magic and Healing was far greater that any of her one-time co-habitants. Akkarin was right in his assumption – she did not want sympathy from him, but his directness left her speechless; vulnerable.

"Ohh..." she managed, and she turned away, hating him because he had spoken no less than the truth. Akkarin watched as she bit down hard on her lip.

"You have learnt that bones can be mended, flesh knitted together, infections isolated and contained, symptoms of minor illnesses eased -" he raised a darkly reproving eyebrow and his voice hardened. "But you should also know, if you have been paying attention in class, that even Healers struggle to cure more serious illnesses, especially tumours carried by the blood and diseases that attack the nervous system, as the wasting illness did."

Sonea knew well enough the limits of Healing, and her pride found it hard to be lectured like a simpleton by her guardian, as if he really believed that she did not pay attention in class. But her tongue had been unruly enough for one evening however, and she bit back her indignation. Akkarin sensed her demeanour stiffen, and his tone softened when he spoke again.

"In certain cases, the Healers are as helpless as the medicine-men of the city markets, and they have to rely on conventional medicines. " His mouth tightened. "But you knew that, didn't you?"

Akkarin leaned forwards and laid a hand on the table; it looked oddly placatory. The movement caught Sonea's attention and she glanced at his elegant, long-fingered hand again. Killer or not, it was hardly the hand that personified the nightmarish villains of her childhood dreams. Her eyes, defiant, rose to meet his. If he knew she was an attentive student, why taunt her?

"Yes, I know that. But the people of the Slums always seem to suffer more than the wealthier citizens of the city – or even the horses," she added in a low, soft voice. Treacherous, disobedient tongue!

Akkarin's cool exterior remained intact however, and he did not react. Nevertheless, Sonea's bravado was short-lived as he gazed at her steadily. She felt her will quickly drain away beneath that black stare.

"During the Wasting Illness, the King lost his mother; Lord Rothen lost his wife," he responded simply, and watched as his words smashed through her defences, and he instantly regretted mentioning Sonea's former guardian.

Sonea hung her head like a chastised child, hiding behind the curtain of her hair once more. Her eyes were cast down so that her the High Lord could not read them.

"So you see," he continued gently, "magicians are not immune to such losses, and Healers are not the miracle workers that the slum-dwellers take them to be." The black magician tilted his head in silent contemplation. After a few moments he spoke again.

"Advice _was_ given during that epidemic, about isolating the stricken and the importance of thorough cleanliness, in an effort to contain the disease. Though I concede such precautions would have been harder to take in the Slums, the advice went largely unheeded, and so more slum-dwellers died."

Akkarin's face suddenly darkened and it was his turn to look away.

" Some magicians are not as impervious to the plight of the Slum-dwellers as you might imagine. If I have learnt anything over the years, it is that things are never simple. You would do well to remember that, Sonea."

At that moment, Takan entered the room carrying a plate of delicate and delicious looking pastries. A sweet, spicy aroma filled the air. The Sachakan glanced from guardian to novice, but only smiled in overt pride at his edible works of art, oblivious, or simply immune, to the tensions of the room.

"Thankyou, Takan." The servant responded to his master with a bow, but turned to Sonea.

"They are a recipe from my homeland, where they are a rare treat. I thought you might enjoy them, my Lady."

Sonea looked up, startled and as wide-eyed as a child, when she realised that the servant was addressing her. She managed a weak smile that dimpled her cheek.

"I am sure I will – thankyou," she murmured awkwardly, unused to such courtesies and considerations. Takan grinned openly, and then, bowing, he left the room.

Still flustered by the conversations with Akkarin, Sonea looked for some distracting activity, and so reached for one of the pastries. At that same moment, the High Lord also reached out a hand, and guardian and novices' fingers brushed lightly. Sonea instantly dropped the pastry she had grasped and her face flushed pink as she realised, with mortification, her discourtesy of helping herself before the High Lord.

Of the few meals they had taken together, this was proving to be the worst. Long moments of drawn out silence passed before Sonea dared to glance up at her guardian. When she did, her embarrassment gave way to surprise.

Akkarin had picked up the discarded pastry and was holding it out for her to take; his own plate was still empty. Sonea stared at the delicacy stupidly. With a small gesture, Akkarin proffered it to her, and she reached and took it, careful not to touch him again. She mumbled her thanks, her eyes flitting to his briefly. Was that a genuine smile that touched his lips? No; a twitch at the corner of his stern mouth. Sonea dismissed it; it didn't qualify.

She took a small bite of the sweet-cake. Despite the circumstances, her expression reflected her admiration for Takan's skill as her mouth filled with a melting, buttery sweetness, and she finished the pastry quickly. Nevertheless, with every mouthful she wished for the ordeal to be over; to be out of Akkarin's searching presence – an examination which she was never sure if she passed or failed.

* * *

Takan cleared away the last of the plates and glasses, glancing surreptitiously at his master as he did so. Akkarin sat sombre and still, his fingers loosely encircling the stem of his goblet.

"You are not regretting your decision to dine with Lady Sonea every week?"

Akkarin looked up distractedly.

"Mmmmm? Oh, no. Not yet anyway."

Akkarin thought back to that first meal and his motives for it. He had felt the need to offer Sonea all the advantages of being the High Lord's favourite, and Takan's cooking was undoubtedly one. It also helped assuage his guilt at taking her away from Rothen.

As he had watched the wonder in Sonea's face as she ate the food that first time, Akkarin had found himself unexpectedly gratified and, on a whim, he had requested the meal to be a weekly event. He had told himself since that the impulse had arisen from his concern over her fragile looking frame, and his wish, as a responsible guardian, to ensure she ate properly at least once a week. That there was another reason for desiring the regular and prolonged encounter, the High Lord was not ready to admit as yet. But there was another reason; there _was_ something else.

Even as he stood and turned to the window, following the small, brown-robed figure of his novice as she hurried back to the refuge of the University, it was there. The tendrils of a concept were unfurling in the deep reaches of his mind, beginning to probe for connections- a way to make the impossible possible – but he daren't admit it to himself. He could never have believed that somewhere within him lurked the capacity for hope - a hope at odds with the fear of hoping.

Hope of an ally in his solitary defence of Imardin. Hope of another willing source of powerful magic. Hope of companionship and understanding. Hope of...something that he never thought to feel again.

* * *

Sweat beaded his brow and soft moans of anguish escaped his lips. His head rolled and beneath pale lids, his eyes roved, searching the landscape of his dreams. The shift was subtle. The gardens and the buildings were the same. Only a sickly light, lying like shroud over the macabre scene, cold and two-dimensional, indicated that this was not the waking world.

Like so many tortuous nights before, Akkarin looked down at the leering Sachakan below, swathed in his opulent clothing as he beckoned to the small figure of the dark-haired woman. As she moved like a ghost towards the Ichani, compelled by a bizarre honour and duty, Akkarin hammered his fists at the window – inexorably playing his part as always. Only this time the woman did not turn to mouth voiceless words to him as he stood, helpless, at the window. For the first time since he had left Sachaka, the nightmare was different -wrong.

The Ichani that held Akkarin's horrified gaze as he raised a crescent-shaped blade above the woman was not Dakova, but another Ichani. The knife sheared downwards, a bright flash in the gloom, before it sliced through the woman's skin - not golden, but alabaster white. Akkarin's fist shattered the glass with a muted snap of invisible power and he was jolted into the stench and hum of blood and magic.

Akkarin awoke suddenly, his black eyes flying open like slits of night. Fear pulled at him like a hook and he scrambled to sit upright in his tousled bed, raking long fingers through his hair. He gasped, drawing air into his lungs as his mind grasped at the mundane objects of the real world, clinging to them and seeking refuge. His hand twisted in the white sheet and he blinked slowly.

For the first time in over eight years his nightmare had changed. The tithe of pain that paid the debt of his guilt was altered. And Akkarin felt like he choked on his own heart.

**A/N: So here's the next chapter. I'm looking forward to writing about upcoming events:- the challenge etc. - and I hope I do them justice from Akkarin's POV. To give you a heads up - maybe 2 or 3 more chapters covering TN before I move on to THL. Of course, it all belongs to Trudi! **

**Thankyou to my lovely reviewers/favouriters /followers! I wouldn't bother if it wasn't for you! **

**Thanks for reading! Please review!**


	16. Chapter 15 Pride

**Chapter 14 Pride**

The Slums of Imardin were a labyrinth; hundreds of blind alleys, intertwined like a drawer full of snakes, but the squat man that Akkarin followed seemed to know his way cold. They had met in the North Square market, the High Lord shrouded in his battered cloak and hood, and, at a nod from the young Thief, the magician had followed him, always hanging back a short distance.

As they made their way, the city began to distract Akkarin from the dark mood that had gripped him in the days since his nightmare. It was hard not to be taken in by the bustle of Kyralia's capital city, with its myriad of street stalls and traders from every corner of the Allied Lands.

Brightly dyed silks from Lonmar fluttered, scarlet, viridian and cobalt in the breeze. On the edges of the markets, old men leaned together in doorways, sipping cups of strong, bitter raka, whilst children darted amongst the legs of hapless visitors, their mothers scolding voices chasing them as the trill of their laughter rose above the cacophony of languages that crowded the air like exotic birds. Food stalls, selling everything from fresh marin juice, to hanging braces of limp rassook, lined the streets, and the mingled aroma of nalar, papea and curem assaulted the noses of passers-by.

But as they left the bustling merchant areas of the city behind, Akkarin's thoughts returned to the reason for this meeting: the latest murderer to plague the city had made a bold move by killing outside of the Slums, and by openly using magic. Akkarin needed to personally convey the urgency of finding this latest slave before more uncomfortable questions could be raised by the City Guard.

The two men now entered a narrow street which led to the harbour. Cery indicated an ill-kept building with a sign over the door depicting a crudely painted ship on an unnaturally green ocean. The shorter man led the way into the dark interior, pulling out a stool at an empty table in a secluded corner of the shabby bolhouse. Akkarin slid silently into the seat opposite. The Thief glanced around, a grimace pulling at his features.

"It's used by sailors and merchants mostly; we're unlikely to attract suspicion – there are always traders meeting here to haggle out deals and the like."

"I'm guessing that none have an agreement such as ours, " came the deep voice from his hooded companion. Cery smiled grimly, casting his eyes down.

"No," he replied as he snapped his fingers to attract a serving girl.

The flustered and greasy-looking maid gave Cery a withering glare, though she came over and stood silently as he ordered some wine with cold meats and black bread in an authoritative voice. Akkarin considered him appraisingly, his black eyes glittering with amusement.

The young dwell had grown considerably in confidence in the time he had been in the High Lord's employ. Cery had embraced his new life as a Thief and had cultivated an impressive air of gravitas and authority that made up for his lack of height. Sonea's friend had shown a shrewd intelligence which, coupled with an emotional simplicity and fierceness, ensured he was honest and upfront in his dealings with the High Lord, and thorough and tenacious in his appointed task. They were also qualities which had led him to feel so deeply for Sonea.

Akkarin's faint smile vanished and he shifted in his seat uneasily as a worm of discomfort writhed suddenly inside him at the thought of his novice. Though Cery did not openly declare it, Akkarin knew he had been pleased when the magician had taken Sonea as his novice, and, indeed, had assumed it was partly motivated by the High Lord's gratitude for his efficient tracking of the Ichani slaves. Given the real reason for taking the guardianship, the black magician felt dishonest. He liked Cery, and the subterfuge did not sit easily with him.

Akkarin had wondered more than once if Sonea would turn to her Thief friend and trust him with truth about her change in guardianship. It was a risk, given that Cery was employed by the High Lord and knew that Akkarin was the killer of the sachakan slaves. But Akkarin was somehow confident that Sonea would not jeopardise Lorlen and Rothen's safety, or endanger Cery either, by telling him of her plight.

_Or let him know how miserable she really is either, _the black magician thought ruefully.

"Sir?"

The serving girl's voice pervaded Akkarin's thoughts. She had turned to him,regarding him for the first time and eyed him with curiosity and an altogether more favourable air than she had Cery. Noticing, and somewhat chagrined by the change in the girl's demeanor, the young Thief now surreptitiously returned Akkarin's scrutiny.

Cery had decided a while ago that the Guild leader's coldness was caution and not lack of emotion; his sternness to offset his youth. Even Cery knew that rarely did so young a man reach the position of High Lord. However, there _was _a blackness about him, but Cery himself did not perceive it as malevolent; rather a brooding sort of patience. Certainly, his black brows were often pulled together in a glower, or arched haughtily, and his fathomless black eyes were all too expressive of cynical emotions. Nevertheless, Cery could not help but like the man and his quiet, unassuming dignity.

"Sir?" the serving girl said again. "Can I get _you_ anything?" Neither man missed the slight emphasis, or were ignorant to its intended innuendo. Akkarin's mouth curled. Cery frowned.

Why must he always pull his mouth to one side, either in disapproval or in one of those sardonic smiles? Cery glanced at the girl's open, expectant face, her own lips curled in a flirtatious way. The shorter man scowled at the randomness of nature's gifts and the advantages they brought, though, he admitted candidly to himself, Akkarin must be considered handsome, for there was a certain compelling air about him that he imagined the opposite sex found magnetic.

Cery's scowl deepened. Was Sonea affected by her guardian's physical charms? Cery had only seen her once since her guardianship had changed, and she had not passed comment on Akkarin personally; in fact, she had seemed reluctant to talk about her elevated position at all, wanting only to gossip about her friends in the city instead.

Cery snorted softly. Such ponderings were pointless; he suspected that any woman would find it difficult to penetrate the High Lord's reserve, and Sonea was his novice – surely such things were forbidden? He glanced back to the magician who was now addressing the maid.

"No, thankyou. My friend has ordered sufficient for us both," Akkarin answered the girl in a gentle, but unmistakeably dismissive, tone.

"Fine," she responded huffily, her smile replaced by a frown of annoyance and she walked away, her hips swinging and her head held haughtily high.

"Poor girl," Cery laughed. "She'll have to make do with some trader, bored with his wife; or, more likely, a sailor." The young man raised his eyebrows knowingly. "Always plenty of them 'round 'ere. Either just landed and too long at sea, or about to set sail – either way, there's only one thing on their minds." And Cery found himself looking appreciatively at the girl as she sashayed away.

Suddenly Cery remembered his companion and cleared his throat in embarrassment, but Akkarin sat impassively, his face immobile as he met Cery's awkward glance.

"This one is bold," the magician stated quietly as he leaned forwards. "And I don't mean the girl," he raised an eyebrow at his companion who blushed faintly. "He takes risks the others didn't," he continued. "The sooner he is located, the better. I know you are always thorough, but maybe you need some extra hands on this one; I will, of course, make it worth your while," he added in a low voice.

"Mmmmmm. Killed in the Western Quarter I heard," Cery responded thoughtfully rubbing his chin, all thoughts of the girl, and her hips, forgotton. "Whisperings amongst the Thieves of _magic_."

"Exactly."

Cery sighed. "Not quite my patch, the Western Quarter, but I'm sure I can find someone who can blend in and do a bit of nosing around." He fixed the High Lord with a steady gaze.

"We'll find him, don't worry."

Akkarin smiled weakly. "It's my job to worry about this Ceryni."

The girl returned, her mouth pursed disapprovingly as she glanced sharply at both men. She banged down the ordered food unceremoniously.

"Thank you," Akkarin said with patient courtesy, and he smiled a rare full smile up at the girl, disarmingly. Her scowl immediately disappeared and she blushed scarlet before scurrying away, wringing her apron in her hands.

Cery's eyes narrowed. Did he ever smile at Sonea like that? The Thief fervently hoped not. As Cery looked at the magician's face now, in its usual melancholy repose, he suspected that it was a smile only ever used as a weapon, and not often sincerely meant by this mournful man.

"How is Sonea?" Cery flushed again and looked down, no longer the confident Thief. "Is she well?"

Akkarin's own faced changed as something flickered in the depths of his eyes, though his companion did not see it.

"She is well." Not strictly a lie, he told himself. "She studies hard," he continued perfunctorily. "I am pleased," he added stiffly.

"Good." Cery smiled then took a deep breath and reached for the food, tearing off a hunk of the bread. "Now," and he banished all thoughts of Sonea, "Have the City Guard reported anything of use about our sachakan friend – something distinguishing my men can look out for?..."

* * *

A short time later, a tall, dark-skinned man, of muscular build that was apparent even beneath his loose fitting clothes, stood in the shadows of a doorway. He watched intently as another tall, but gaunt, man strode purposefully towards a seemingly functional sewer grille.

The first man's eyes narrowed in concentration as he tentatively sent out a thread of magic, probing and searching for...

Power! Magical power, so strong that the hidden man immediately reeled in his own and shrank back, cowering in the deeper shadows. His patience had been rewarded! He knew there had been something odd about the man he had seen emerge from the same grille some hours before; something different to the men he had observed using the gateway before. The muscular man's mouth went dry; this was no common Imardian, with unknown latent power – this was a magician! An extremely powerful magican, in disguise and using some sort of secret passageway that led...where exactly?

The magician at the iron-barred gate suddenly stopped and stood stone-still, his head turned to one side as if listening – or searching. The shadowed man drew himself in, smothering his power down into the deepest recesses of his mind. Abruptly, the other man slid through the gate and he quickly disappeared into the veiled darkness beyond.

The watcher let out a long, held breath and unclenched his sweating hands. Maybe it was even Akkarin himself, and maybe the passage led to his stronghold. An excited thrill ran down the large man's spine; how pleased his master would be if he could find a way to attack from within the Guild, just as Kariko wanted.

White teeth flashed in the gloom and then the man turned and slunk away. He clutched at a soft leather pouch in his pocket and felt the hardness of a ring inside. He would keep this to himself for now, until he had the chance to explore further and confirm his suspicions. The humourless smile spread across the man's golden face; Kazook was pleased with himself – very pleased indeed.

* * *

Akkarin stood in the darkness with only his own breath to stir the cold, clammy air around him. Outside the warmth of Spring approached, but it would never reach these passages that were forever denied the heat of the sun.

A frown creased the magician's forehead and drew his black brows together in contemplation of what he had discovered earlier: footprints. Innocuous enough in most places, but footprints on the dust-covered floor of _these_ passages were another thing entirely.

Whilst others knew of the inner corridors and the portal rooms, as far as he was aware, Akkarin was the only magician who knew of, and used , the secret passages - and he was always careful to cover his tracks. The footprints he had noticed were fresh, large, and had come from the direction of the city. They had stopped at an intersection of corridors, before doubling back on themselves and heading back to the Slums. The High Lord's frown deepened. Maybe some inquisitive dwell had happened upon the passages; or maybe someone else, with less savoury motives, was exploring the hidden ways that the Guild leader used to get in and out of the city unseen.

Whoever the interloper was, Akkarin had left some magical barriers in place that would make it more difficult for them if they came snooping for a second time. Suddenly, the scattering sound of running footsteps broke Akkarin's musings and brought him back to the moment, and to the reason for his nocturnal spying on novices.

Most evenings when he could, Akkarin found himself in the University at around the time Sonea left it to finally head back to the Residence. On those occasions he would cast out his senses in order to detect any unusual gathering of magical power that indicated Regin and his allies were planning an ambush of Sonea. All had been quiet for the couple of weeks following Yikmo's discovery of them attacking Sonea, and, appeased, the High Lord would slip back under the University to reach his Residence before his novice did.

But tonight was different. Tonight he had heard the tell-tale whisperings and echo of footsteps that betrayed the presence of a worrying number of novices. Then, finally, the call that they had found Sonea went up.

"She went this way!"

Akkarin knew she was close to his position, he could sense her, but, lost in his thoughts, he had not been watching from the spyhole and when the sharp snap of the lever reverberated the still air of the passage, the High Lord's heart skipped painfully and he instinctively took a step back as a soft light briefly flooded the darkness. As the door clicked shut, his eyes dilated to utter blackness as they strained to see her small form.

She was on tip-toe, her face pressed up to the spyhole, and between gasping breaths, he heard her whispered voice.

"One...two...three...four..."

From the sound of the footsteps that correlated with the numbers, Akkarin guessed that Sonea was counting her would-be assailants as they passed by. Finally she withdrew from the peep-hole and stepped back.

Akkarin stood for long, drawn out moments, counted by the dull beat of his heart – or was it hers? She was so close. So close, and so small - only a hands breadth away. The sweetness of her assailed him and his warm breath sent strands of her silken hair dancing.

His _warm_ breath...

Akkarin's hands at his sides flexed as a strong impulse overcame him to touch her; to grab her small shoulders and to spin her around and demand to know what she was doing here; to...to...

Abruptly he crossed his arms tightly across his chest. A myriad of thoughts flitted across his mind: how did she know of this place, and for how long? Had she ever glimpsed him going about his macabre business, thinking himself alone?

But as Sonea finally realised that _she_ was not alone, one thought prevailed in the black magician's mind : what if his worst fears about the footprints he had discovered were true, and Sonea – shining, powerful Sonea - inadvertently came across their owner during her wanderings in forbidden places- a prey too tempting to resist?

Different emotions played swiftly over Akkarin's face, but the one that Sonea turned and looked up to see as her globe light flared into life, was the black glare of disapproval. Like a lit fuse, it scorched the air between them, parching her throat and heating her face. The wall of the passage was at her back, Akkarin's broad, black-robed chest in front, so she did the only thing she could do and she slid slowly sideways.

Akkarin stared into her wide, shining and fear-filled eyes, then his gaze was drawn to the convulsions of her pale throat as she tried to take a grip on her panic. Unbidden into his mind, came an image from his past- of a golden-skinned woman's throat, as blood pulsed from a hideous slash across it; a red sea, riding the tide of the female slave's heartbeat. Then, quickly, another image usurped it, from Akkarin's imagination this time. Another woman,; another throat - ivory white. Sonea, in the dark passages with someone elses prowling and menacing presence.

Anger at her stupidity rose up in Akkarin. Resourceful she might be- he had to concede that much - but how conceited, to wander around in places clearly not meant for novices. The High Lord clenched his jaw, taking control of his anger; banking it down like a smouldering fire, though the ember of a thought kept it alive – Sonea could have got herself killed. As she took another step sideways , his arm shot out to prevent her escape.

"Get out," his voice was low and dangerous.

She didn't move, and her eyes shifted in something akin to confused hurt. In spite of everything, he was still her guardian, and he was all but offering her up to her tormentors. But how could he explain to her why he was here?

Without divulging his secret, she would never understand his need for her to develop her warrior skills by any means that were effective. She_ could_ not know why he roamed the passages, defending and protecting the people who walked above ,and that others,with the opposite motive, could also be lurking,waiting to pounce. She would never believe the other reason why he watched her, making sure she came to no real harm from Regin. How could she, when he had not admitted it to himself?

"Now! And don't enter these passages again."

Sonea jumped, startled, but turned immediately and, excruciatingly, she struggled to unlock the concealed door. After checking that no-one was waiting for her, she fell out of the doorway and into the corridor. Akkarin quickly snapped the door shut with his booted foot and then placed his eye to the spy hole, staring straight down onto the top of Sonea's dark head as she stood there, huddled and trembling, her arms wrapped protectively about her middle. He gritted his teeth against a tide of emotions, willing numbness to descend over his mind, though he felt his heart thudding rapidly as he sensed the convergence of several magical energies nearby, and he silently commanded his novice to move.

As if obeying, Sonea suddenly sprang into action and she ran swiftly and fluidly down the corridor. A moment later she passed by Akkarin's vantage point again, running in the opposite direction, before fleeing down a side passage. Her guardian was trapped on the opposite side of the corridor and could not follow the pursuit.

"Argh!" He snarled, clenching his fists hard at his sides before raising his hand to his forehead and clasping his hair, pulling black strands from their bonds. The numbness he had felt gave way to a writhing cauldron of emotions: irritation, anger, frustration and... _fear?_

_Was_ he fearful for the outcome of this ambush? How many novices had she counted? - Nineteen, twenty?

No, he told himself emphatically, he was_ not_ afraid for Sonea. This was all an exercise in learning, and his only motive for watching was as a guardian, interested in how his novice performed in such circumstances. If anything_ did_ happen to Sonea, he would be rid of her irritating and inconvenient presence in his life, and so much the better!

She was nothing but a potential power source to him, and, as if to prove it to himself, he turned on his heel and stalked down the passageway in the direction of his residence. As his long strides bore him further away from his novice, a familiar, cold light, like the core of a black star, sprang to life in the depths of his eyes.

* * *

The Eye was high in the deep indigo sky that hung above the Guild when, a while later, Akkarin heard the tap of boots on the approach to the High Lord's residence. He was sat stiffly at his study desk and every nerve in his body seemed on edge, razor-sharp and ready to slice into anyone who came near. Tonight was _not_ the night for a confrontation.

He rose suddenly, and turned to the window. How many wakeful nights had he spent at this window, resisting the call of his bed and chafing against the long hours of darkness, afraid even to try to rest?

There was no fear of stalking nightmares this time, but a different kind of emotional turmoil. He struggled to separate the confusion of feelings that assailed him – of anger and concern, and stirrings of something else, barely recognised.

Vulnerability was something that rarely troubled Akkarin, but he felt desperately vulnerable now, even though he railed against the weakness, refusing to acknowledge its source.

As he stared down he caught a glimpse of brown robes in the moonlight. Sonea made her way slowly and stiffly down the path towards the door. Her head was bowed so that he could not see her face, and she dragged her feet, but whether with reluctance or exhaustion, the High Lord couldn't tell. Then she glanced up suddenly, her eyes huge and dark in her white face, and Akkarin quickly withdrew into the shadows of the darkened room.

The earlier anger had abated now, but he could feel it still, seething just below the mask of calm composure he wore, fixed in place by years of practise. No, he would not be waiting for his novice downstairs tonight, and again, Sonea would wonder at the good fortune of his timely absence.

As Akkarin heard the soft click of the frontdoor below, and the light steps on the stairs, ascending, a breath escaped his lips and something within him loosened. He slumped back down into his chair and, despite his earlier mood, his black eyes sparkled like jet as a smile slowly spread over his face, transforming his harshly chiselled features into a sincere expression, unseen for many years.

She had made it.

Sonea had managed to overcome twenty or so of her peers, and return, wearied, but unscathed.

Akkarin sat amazed for a moment, then a low, soft laughter bubbled up from within him as the relief he had felt gave way to something else entirely; something unexpected, and it snuffed out all the defiant smoulderings of his previous rage.

Pride. He was proud of his novice – but she could never, ever know it.

**A/N: Two more chapters left covering TN! Hope you're still enjoying! Thanks to all my lovely, lovely reviewers/favouriters (not a word!) /alerters! I continue because of your wonderful encouragement!**

**Thanks for reading, please review!**


	17. Chapter 16 The Watcher

**Chapter 16 The Watcher.**

The dull, muted thunder of horses hooves vibrated the ground outside the pavilion, accompanied by the gasps and cheers of onlookers as they enjoyed the biggest and most prestigious race meet of the year.

The Guild's enclosure was second in luxury only to the royal one; its ivory silken sides rippling in the warm breeze and gently reflecting the shimmering glow of hundreds of tiny globelights that floated in the tent's pinnacled roof.

The floor was carpeted with richly woven rugs from Lonmar. Gold cutlery and finely cut glasses festooned the tables, which were themselves adorned with the finest embroidered linens and impossibly crafted glass vessels which acted as vases for cascading, fragrant flowers.

Down one side, furthest from the equine activity outside, tables were laden with silver platters of every delicacy - both sweet and savoury - imaginable, and servants unobtrusively mingled with the throng of magicians, filling glasses with wine and clearing tables.

Yes, it was easy to see why every novice who was able took full advantage of the Guild's pavilion at the King's Races.

A babble of excited laughter – sometimes rippling, sometimes raucous - filled the air, much of it coming from the flush-faced clusters of brown-robed novice magicians. But, true to her word, Sonea had not come, instead choosing to spend her freeday in the library.

The High Lord stood with the Administrator and the other Higher Magicians as they talked animatedly about the race outcomes, and complained woefully of their lighter coin pouches. For the most part Akkarin remained silent. He did not come every year, but this year he felt uneasy about the boldness of the latest Ichani slave to plague the city, and wanted to be present at such a large gathering of magicians outside of the Guild gates.

His attention was only half on the conversation however , as his mind was constantly alert for unfamiliar magical activity, or malevolent surface thoughts. With the killings in the West Quarter, and the footprints in the passages, Akkarin could take nothing for granted.

"Really Balkan! You should know better than to wager that much on a single horse; have you learnt nothing from last year?!" Vinara berated the warrior, who looked down contritely at his boots, mumbling an excuse.

Lorlen detected Akkarin's tense demeanour and distracted features and cast him furtive glances as the others talked.

"How have you fared High Lord? You are usually a good judge of a horse. Are you lighter or heavier than at the start of the day?" Vinara enquired, raising her eyebrows expectantly. The High Lord managed a smile.

"I am about the same at the moment Vinara – but I expect that to change for the better after the next race." Akkarin responded.

Balkan looked up hopefully and opened his mouth, but Akkarin forestalled his question, with a knowing smile.

"The two-year old, chestnut gelding belonging to Lord Avran is running, and is in fine form at th..."

__Master! _Takan's mental tone was anxious.

__Takan?_

__Sonea has left the Guild._

__She has done what?!_

__One of your well placed friends outside the main gate thought it might be of interest to you that your novice had slipped out unchallenged and into the city._

__Did he follow her? _Akkarin asked.

__No, he remained at his post, but sent word immediately._

Outwardly, Akkarin's features remained immobile, but inwardly his stomach churned.

_ _Thankyou_. _I will find her Takan._

The High Lord focused on his colleagues once more, who were all staring at him with bemused expressions; all except Lorlen who now wore a deep frown.

"I am sorry, I have something urgent I must attend to." Akkarin turned to Balkan. "You will let me know how the next race goes?" The warrior inclined his head in the affirmative.

"Good" the High Lord smiled thinly. "Please, excuse me." And with that, Akkarin turned and stalked away, leaving his colleagues to belatedly bow their heads.

Vinara folded her arms in consternation.

"I sometimes wonder if that man has two lives. He is always flitting here and there mysteriously," the healer commented.

"Yes, and turning up when you least expect it," Lorlen muttered darkly, though his tone went unnoticed by the others.

"I would hardly describe the High Lord as someone who 'flits', Vinara, but I take your point, " Lord Sarrin said.

"Whatever he does, " Balkan rumbled, "no-one can say he shirks his duties, or does not fulfil his role as High Lord."

_Yes, _thought Lorlen, _he __more than fulfils it._

* * *

Takan's liquid amber eyes narrowed shrewdly as he studied his master intently. The magician had been quiet since he had returned from the city, pinching the bridge of his nose and pulling absently at his lower lip, his eyes distant and thoughtful.

After Takan's communication concerning Sonea, Akkarin had hurried to the Northern Quarter of the city, knowing that area to be the one that his novice was most familiar with. He did not truly believe she had run; he knew she would not risk Lorlen and Rothen's safety. Rather, he thought it most likely that she simply wished to purchase something – a book perhaps – and the North Square market was her most obvious destination.

_Was there no end to her stupidity? _Akkarin had thought as he spun round and round amidst the market stalls, pulling his hastily retrieved cloak tighter about himself.

A killer on the loose in the city, and she thought it a good idea to take a shopping trip without asking his permission first. But, he had reminded himself, Sonea did not know the nature of the murderer, nor that she would offer a very tempting prey to a killer seeking magical power.

Amongst the teeming stalls -the city's population swollen by the races- Akkarin had been unable to detect Sonea's presence.

He had strode up and down the narrow thoroughfares, not caring, or even noticing, when he knocked into people, jostling them out of his path. He had searched at every book-seller he could think of, and had asked about the location of others, but to no avail.

He had looked then, beyond the North Square, for her improbably small figure and hoping for a glimpse of the dark silk of her hair. He sent tendrils of magic, probing every corner for her energy – a bright star that would have shone out amongst the surrounding minds of her fellow Imardians. A beacon, not just for himself, but also for the Ichani slave, hungry for magic.

But he could not find her.

He'd wondered furiously where she could have gone, and had tried not to let the question shift to what might have happened to her. But as the hours had passed, the possibilities had grown darker, his fears warping in nightmare ways that drew inspiration from every terrible thing he had ever done.

Images had assaulted him. His heart had thudded painfully in his chest. Again and again Akkarin had pressed his palms to his eyes to blot them out, trying to reassert logic in his mind.

This city, he had told himself, was of thousands; the chances of Sonea coming to the slave's attention was remote . But Sonea glowed by comparison to an ordinary citizen; a halo of magic radiated from her, if you knew what to look for – and Kariko would have taught his slaves well, Akkarin was sure of that. And, of course, Sonea had been found before, and she had no handy knife in her belt now.

Then, suddenly, it had come to Akkarin, so obvious that his irrational mind had not seen it. Her aunt and uncle. Sonea could be visiting them. The High Lord had made it his business to know where they lived, and indeed, he had made sure they had been watched over. With the bite of renewed hope, Akkarin had hurried away to the outer edges of the Slums.

And so, he had found her – alive and well and...happy; animated. Embracing her aunt and uncle and jiggling her baby cousin on her lap. Akkarin had been reminded of her face as she had read her book in the quiet of the university. Vibrant, luminous – all sparkling, loam-brown eyes and dimpled cheek. Beautiful, he had conceded as he had watched, the feeling of relief stealing over him and calming his beating heart.

Then, he had withdrawn and clung to the shadows. This was her family, not his; this was hers, and he had already stolen her old memories, it did not seem right to intrude on her new ones.

He had waited until Sonea left, and then he'd followed her at a distance, needing only to focus on her power, even when she moved out of sight.

He had watched, grim faced, as she'd passed back into the Guild. He had felt the gentle lap of emotions, demanding attention before they engulfed him entirely, but, at that moment, he had held them at bay.

Now, back in his Residence, and with Sonea safely in her room and most likely sleeping, Akkarin still tried to resist any self-examination. His servant, however, had no such qualms about doing it for him.

The golden eyes of the Sachakan narrowed further and the words spilled out before Takan could think the better of them.

"You care for this girl – don't you?"

Akkarin glanced up sharply and his black eyes flashed for a moment in annoyance.

"I am her guardian; it is my duty to care for her," the High Lord stated in a tone that carried a barely perceptible warning. He held Takan's gaze with an unspoken challenge.

The servant frowned with uncertainty and opened his mouth to speak before changing his mind , instead collecting some glasses from the dining table. He walked to the door and all the time Akkarin's black glare followed him, and the dark-skinned man felt the weight of their scrutiny.

As the servant passed through the door he abruptly stopped and, taking a breath, he turned slowly to face his master. In that moment, Takan felt keenly the solitude of Akkarin's existence; the pain and loss of his past, and the injustice of the lonely life that had been thrust upon him.

In a reckless instant, Takan took up the challenge in the magician's implacable stare – a thing no-one had ever dared to do, but Akkarin was his friend. The Sachakan's eyes rose to meet the High Lord's steadily.

"Master," he murmured tentatively, "you _care _for her don't you?" He asked again, and he unknowingly gripped the tray tightly and held his breath.

Akkarin hesitated. For an instant, a split second, the mask slipped, but in that brief moment, Takan saw some urgent pathos surface; a wave of feeling that softened his rigid features. His jaw clenched, his lips parted and his brow furrowed in an instant of confusion – but then it was gone.

Silence lay between the two men like a thing alive. Takan swallowed before continuing.

"I sensed your concern when I told you she had left the Guild, and when you couldn't find her immediately..."

"Takan..." Akkarin's voice was soft; tight; controlled, but the warning was unmistakable now. His servant, however, plundered on.

"It was more than a guardian's concern for his novice. More than the concern that she had attempted to run..."

"Takan..."

"Your relief was palpable when you returned from the city, knowing she was safe back in the Guild; I could see it."

"You could see that, with her foolish, secretive wanderings, that I was concerned she would become a most bountiful source of power for the black magician currently stalking the city, killing Imardians!" Akkarin snapped, his resistance broken.

"_If _she gets herself killed with her stupidity, then I would happily have one less problem to deal with. However, if, in the process, she gives my enemy a huge power boost, then that will most definitely _not _help me!"

Akkarin's face as he spoke, was carven in stone – every inch the formidable, powerful High Lord. His voice seared the air like ice as he continued:

"_That,_ I assure you, is the limit of my concern for Sonea's welfare!" He concluded tersely, and his eyes glittered dangerously. But Takan's masochism knew no bounds where his master was concerned.

"You have grieved too long, master," the servant whispered. "You have much in common – you and she, as unlikely as that may seem at first glance."

Akkarin swallowed hard and brought his fist to his mouth.

"She knows so much already; you could do worse than to trust her – and I don't just mean with your secret."

"Takan..."

"She has an endearing charm about her..."

"TAKAN!" The High Lord exclaimed as he slammed his fist down on the table. The servant jumped and the glasses on his tray tinkled.

"That is enough!" There was a pause before Akkarin added with a hiss that was no less vehement:

"You forget your place Takan."

The two men's' eyes met for an instant – amber and obsidian – then Takan looked to the floor and his shoulders drooped before he shuffled carefully backwards through the door with his tray.

Akkarin sat back in his chair and ran long fingers across his brow.

"Takan..." he called through the gap in the closing door. "I'm sorry...I didn't mean..." His voice was laden with remorse.

The door clicked shut.

"Damn!"

Akkarin rarely reminded Takan of his position, despite the Sachakan's fervent embrace of the role. The magician viewed the arrangement more of a convenient ruse to explain Takan's presence when they arrived back in Kyralia. That he had referenced the subservient nature of his friend's employment defensively, and in anger, irked Akkarin. Of all people, Takan most deserved his respect, for both past and present service.

Akkarin sighed heavily and stared, transfixed, at the wine flask before him on the table. Despite his resolve not to indulge them, his thoughts were inexorably pulled into the events of the day. If only the stupid girl had not gone to visit her relatives, none of this would have happened!

Akkarin's mouth tightened into a hard line and his frown deepened, casting his eyes into shadow as he recalled the panic he had felt as he'd searched for his novice. A panic, he told himself, that was goaded only by the fear of her fleeing Imardin with his secret, or that she might fall victim to the prowling slave, and so give him a huge advantage – surely there was nothing else?

"_You care for this girl..." _

Akkarin was fascinated by Sonea, certainly, but only because she was a thing new and strange to him; a powerful 'natural'; a girl from the Slums; an interruption in his previous solitude. His novice - nothing more.

There never _could _be anyone. His heart was shut, he had promised himself that he would remain loyal to Her; promised her dead form, yellow-hued and sickly in death, the flush of life drained from it.

_But you cannot stop someone from treading the path to your heart, _Akkarin thought suddenly to himself. His frown became a scowl.

_But I do not have to unlock the door._

Akkarin forced his gaze outwards again and his eyes snapped into focus on the wine flask. He reached for it before realising that Takan had taken the glasses.

Takan.

Akkarin's eyes closed slowly in his pale face and his shoulders fell as he remembered the hurt in his friend's face. Then another face replaced his servant's:

Sonea.

The High Lord's own features clouded . He felt swamped by unwelcome thoughts. He needed to be free of them, for a little while at least. He curled his fingers purposefully around the wine flask and, putting it to his lips, he took a long slug of its contents.

Life would be so much easier if he truly were as cold and aloof as everyone took him to be.

* * *

The deep, melancholy voice of the cello faded, leaving only the hauntingly beautiful notes of the violin to soar piercingly, before they too were extinguished.

The eyes of the man who sat listening intently, resplendent and imposing in his black silk robes, were like black pools, so fathomless that to guess at the thoughts behind them would be beyond foolishness. That, however, did not stop others from trying.

"Akkarin? It's your move," the exquisitely dressed, aging woman who sat opposite paused before smirking and shooting a conspiratorial glance at the green-eyed young man next to her.

"Thoughts of your novice keeping you from us ,High Lord?" The woman adopted a look of feigned hurt.

Akkarin was, in fact recalling events from his past that would make his current companions blanch and shudder. Events concerning one person in particular.

In his mind's eye he could see the heaviness of her hair, the golden tone of her skin, the amber-brown – or was it amber –gold ? – of her eyes.

Akkarin frowned. He blinked once, slowly. Her face was a golden smudge; indistinct, where before it had been carved into his very being.

He blinked again. The moment had come. How odd , that it should be here, at the palace, in the King's company, that the moment he had long dreaded should sneak upon him.

Akkarin had failed to conjure Her face, but he did not feel the panic he had expected; the turmoil, the desperation. He felt...

"Akkarin! I said it is your move." The woman's voice held a tone of irritation now. His head snapped towards her.

"Mmmmmm? Oh, of course," he responded at last, casting a vaguely apologetic glance at the King's aunt. His gaze slid to the marble and onyx game board and he stared intently, a furrow of concentration creasing his brow.

Then, the High Lord's face smoothed suddenly and, with elegant fingers, he casually plucked a golden piece off the board, and moved it, knocking over a silver piece with a dull clunk.

The elderly woman looked with bemusement at the board for a moment, before her mouth pulled in a hard line of annoyed consternation as she realised how she had been undone.

"Oh Akkarin," the King drawled, whilst gesturing to the musicians in the corner of the lavishly decorated room to play again. "You really are a bore. Can't you at least give your opponents the impression they have a chance of winning?"

"Yes," the king's cousin, Ilorin remarked, "though at least it's reassuring that living under the same roof as a slum girl"- and his voice became full of sneering disdain – "has not dulled your wits."

Ilorin laughed, pleased with his own quip, and it was joined by the soft mirth of others seated around the table.

Merin, whilst suppressing a smirk himself, glanced uneasily at the High Lord. And, indeed, Akkarin's expression_ had_ darkened as he indicated to a hovering servant for his glass to be re-filled with wine.

"I don't know how you bear it Akkarin," came the surprisingly virile voice from a wizened looking man who hobbled to the table with the aid of an intricately carved stick. He slumped into a chair heavily then straightened his legs, grimacing. He wrinkled his nose before speaking again.

"Imagine the smell for one thing!" And, he too, let out a loud guffaw in appreciation of his own wit.

Merin's aunt placed her fingers over the bony hand of the man that still gripped the stick.

"Oh, father! You are bad! I'm sure she has bathed since she arrived at the Guild, but still, it can't be much fun for you, Akkarin – to have to put up with her rough, uncultured ways and habits, no matter how powerful a magician she is," Merin's aunt concluded as she looked sympathetically at the High Lord.

Ilorin sighed ruefully. "What an unfortunate quirk of nature for such power to emerge in one who cannot, I'm sure, have the intellect to harness its potential. Just think what a great magician a son of the Houses could have become if he were so blessed."

The king's aunt shot a reproving glance at her son.

"Or a daughter of the Houses," she said, icily.

Ilorin patted her hand condescendingly and smiled.

"Of course, mother; of course."

Ilorin's mother scowled at her son, but he did not notice. Instead he looked speculatively at Akkarin who sat silent, his black eyes fixed on his wine glass as he spun its stem between his fingertips. A warning muscle clenched in the High Lord's cheek, but the king's cousin was oblivious as he continued.

"Only the other day, old Lord Haarken of House Talon was bemoaning the fact that the High Lord's favourite was a girl _and _from the slums, no less."

Ilorin's mother opened her mouth to protest again, but a low voice, so cold it froze everyone in earshot to the core, spoke before she had a chance.

"The Houses are rich with complaint; their grievances as overflowing as their vaults." Though Akkarin now spoke, he did not look up as he brought his glass to his lips and swallowed deeply.

"And House Velan's treasury as full as anyone's," the king's aging great-uncle commented dryly.

Akkarin let out a short bark of laughter and raised a dark eyebrow. A slight smile of amusement curled his lip as he raised his glass at the old man.

"Indeed, Grevard; indeed. Well said," Akkarin conceded.

A new voice spoke, and with a faint slur which indicated that its owner had consumed too much of the king's wine.

"All could be forgiven, Akkarin – her origins, her gender, her dull-wittedness – " the young, red-headed woman commented as she cast her eyes around the table and her expression became screwed into one of disgust – "her _smell! Y_es, all could be understood_ if _she were a great beauty. You are man first and foremost after all," and she snorted drunkenly.

"But I have been reliably informed," she plundered on, "that she is stunted, sickly and with no exceptional features to redeem her."

Akkarin took another mouthful of wine. Merin's green eyes narrowed and he cleared his throat.

"Yes, well; did you hear Ilorin, that my new promising mare has been taken lame? Damn shame!"

Akkarin stood suddenly, startling his companions and they seemed to shrink back at his tall, looming presence over them. The attention of others milling around the room was drawn to the small table and its occupants.

"Thankyou, Merin, but do not change the subject on my account," his voice was clipped and cold as he turned to the others at the table. "However, since I am more familiar with my favourite than any of you, and know well the manner of her _few_ weaknesses, as well as the vastness of her _abundant_ strengths, I do not feel it necessary to take part in this conversation any longer. " He bowed his head gracefully to King Merin. "Please, excuse me."

"Akkarin..." the King began, but was interrupted.

"And for your information, " Akkarin said, shooting a withering glance at the slack-mouthed faces around the table, "Sonea bathes every day, I believe." And he strode from the room, leaving a swathe of bowed heads and bemused faces in his wake.

Merin sighed and stared at the retreating back of his friend.

"You should all know better than to criticise the High Lord's choice. He picked this girl as his novice, going against even the Administrator's advice , I hear. His decision will not have been made on a whim; he will have his reasons, and I, for one, do not question them." He paused and smiled, breaking the impasse.

"Now, who's for another game? " His green eyes twinkled. "But do not expect to beat your monarch easily either..."

* * *

Akkarin tapped the door of the carriage as it approached the stables. He murmured his thanks distractedly to the driver before setting off down the path towards his residence.

The air was still warm, despite the late hour, and he breathed it in deeply to clear his head of the irritations of the evening.

Merin was his good friend, as were many members of the royal court, but there was no denying that they lived in a cocoon of ignorant privilege. It was not their fault though, Akkarin reminded himself. He himself was guilty of such blind prejudice once – before he had experienced the cruelties of the world.

Akkarin sighed, feeling calmer, though his head now spun slightly from the copious amounts of the king's wine that he had so readily consumed.

Steadying himself, he tentatively tried to conjure Her image again – and failed. It was like trying to recall a melody while another song played – and that song was...

No! He pushed away the thought angrily and quickened his pace up to his front door. When he entered, he immediately strode to the wine cabinet.

As he filled a glass with dark red liquid, Her words came back to him. Unlike Her face, they endured still, whispering to him from the past; from the stolen moments amongst Dakova's tented pavilions.

"_Hatred is all they have known; all they have been taught. You must understand. But __I __know that there are other ways to live. We can find them together – show them..."_

Akkarin swirled the blood-red wine around his glass. What would She think of him now? What would She think of his attempts to show the Sachakan's the 'new way of living' they had whispered about in the quiet world of sand and stars and slavery?

He drew heavily on the wine, knowing he had drunk too much already, but an unfamiliar need pulled at him.

It was not the usual need to numb the pain, but rather a need to disguise the fact that the expected pain was not there. The void of torment that he had imagined for this moment was simply – not there.

He sank down into a chair, clutching his glass and willing a fire to kindle in the stone hearth. He sat still and silent for a long time and he sent a thread of Healing energy to soothe the throb at his temples. The firelight caught the dark, brooding glint of his eyes between slow, drowsy blinks before his mind finally succumbed to the effects of the wine, and slipped into a blanket of muffled protection; the thoughts and emotions that clamoured and demanded his attention became muted and distant.

Akkarin slept – but it was a far from peaceful slumber...

_The wickedly curved blade sheared down, taking its sacrifice of flesh, nerve and sinew. And blood – so much blood. A hand, gentle by comparison to the blade, but far more deadly, held tightly to the hideous gash, greedily drinking the woman's power – even down to her very life essence._

_As the small, limp body fell to the ground, the head, crowned in mahogany hair, rolled sideways and stared with blank, lifeless eyes straight at Akkarin, who stood at his shattered window above. _

_But the eyes were not golden-amber anymore, they were as dark and as rich as soil; wide and clean, but dead nonetheless..._

With a deep gasp, Akkarin awoke from his doze, his head jolting forwards suddenly. The guest room was dark; the fire burnt down to glowing orange embers.

The magician passed a hand over his face as if to wipe away the nightmare, but the image remained.

Sonea – dead.

Akkarin's stomach lurched in protest, and not of the wine, though the effects of that still fogged his mind. In his inner vision her lifeless eyes stared at him still and he felt sick. He stood suddenly, taking a step backwards against the couch to steady himself. He frowned.

He had felt this before, and he never wanted to feel it again.

Akkarin shook his head, his unbound hair framing his face like a thundercloud, but he could not dispel the dull ache in the pit of his stomach.

An urgency overcame him and he strode to the staircase that led to the first floor of his residence.

Not really knowing how he got there, he found himself standing still and silent outside Sonea's bedroom door.

He extinguished his globe light and simply stood there in the blackness of the corridor. He cast out his power and sensed her sleeping mind before reeling it back in again – he did not want to alert her to his presence.

He should have been satisfied that she was there, sleeping. He was not.

The click of the door opening echoed in the stillness of the landing, before it silently swung open. Akkarin swayed, placing his hand on the doorframe as his eyes strained to see her sleeping form, curled in the middle of the large bed. He could just make out the paleness of her face and the darkness of her hair, spread over the pillow.

He could hear the soft, regular rhythm of her breathing and the sickness within him eased. He should have left then, but he did not.

The lingering memory of the dream scalded him, coupled with the knowledge that he, himself, had contemplated killing her once. The bile rose again in his throat.

Akkarin's wine cloaked mind struggled to make sense of what these unfamiliar emotions meant, though he was clear about one thing, and he snorted softly to himself at the thought.

_A new way of living?! _He had become no better than the Ichani; a monster, who had nothing to offer another living soul – only forbidden magic.

He abruptly felt light-headed; giddy as he stood there for long moments on the threshold to Sonea's room.

The things he'd done – the killings – nothing could shrive. Suddenly, he sank back into the utter darkness of the corridor, willing the door shut.

It was wrong, his being there; a lurking threat while Sonea slept so peacefully. He faced the closed door, but his feet did not carry him away.

_There are other ways to live..._

He managed a grim smile at his youthful naivety. There was no hope for him – only death, and vengeance. And there was no peace; never peace.

Akkarin ground the heels of his hands into his eyes as frustration built in him like a scream. Frustration and a confusion of emotions.

Why had he come here? - To her room? Watching; always watching. And why couldn't he make himself leave?

Deep within him the whisper of an answer came, so faint he was able to ignore it - for now. With slow deliberation, he turned away and headed slowly down the corridor to his room.

In the morning, Akkarin's dehydrated and throbbing mind struggled to separate the nightmarish world of his dreams from his wine-induced nocturnal activities.

As he splashed cold water on his face, he decided he would never have been so foolish as to enter his novice's room in the dead of night – after all, what possible motive could he have?

* * *

__Sonea!_

Sonea had been intently examining her boots as she sat on the edge of her bed, slumped forwards with her chin cupped in her hands. She chewed absently on her lip, a frown furrowing her brow.

__Sonea!_

Her guardian's mental tone was light and crisp, yet demanded obedience. Sonea sat bolt upright, her features now pulled in an uncertain grimace. Had he heard then?

__Yes High Lord?_ She answered tentatively, foolishly hoping it had all been a bad dream; that she had not been so stupid as to issue a formal challenge to Regin.

Foolish; yes, that's what she was, and now her guardian was about to explain to her in great detail just how stupid she had been – she was sure of it.

__Could you come down to the guestroom immediately – please. I think you know why, _Akkarin added, still careful to keep his tone unreadable.

A globe light sprang to life above Sonea's head, displacing the long shadows of twilight that filtered through the window. She stood, taking deep breaths and smoothing out the brown silk of her robes. There was no point in stalling it; best get this encounter over with.

She tucked her hair determinedly behind her ears and swallowed hard before walking to the door and opening it. Never before had the distance from her room to the downstairs guestroom seemed so yawningly far. Usually, to walk downstairs meant impending freedom from the High Lord – for a little while at least- but not this time. With a heavy heart, and even heavier footsteps, Sonea made her slow descent.

Akkarin was standing by the long couch when his novice shuffled through the door. As was often the case, her head was bowed and her eyes cast down. Without raising her gaze, she dipped her head lower in the required show of respect.

"High Lord," she murmured in a barely audible whisper; her throat obviously did not trust her tongue to behave.

"Sonea." Akkarin almost drawled her name, sounding almost ..._amused?! _

Sonea looked up sharply. The High Lord's features did not reflect the slight mirth of his tone however, and Sonea immediately regretted glancing up to meet his stern and solemn features.

"Lord Sarrin has taken great delight in informing me that you have challenged another novice to a formal battle, and that he has accepted that challenge."

There was a pause like a held breath, when every second felt like an oxygen deprived torment. Akkarin considered Sonea as she stood, hands laced in front of her and pink circles appearing like twin blooms in her cheeks. She was expecting to be admonished, that much was clear, but she was also angry.

Angry, her guardian guessed, because Regin had forced her hand in this way, and yet _she_ still faced reprimand.

"Is this true?" Akkarin finally asked, raising one dark eyebrow. Sonea mumbled something inaudible to her feet.

"Pardon me? Forgive me, but my ears are not located on your feet," the High Lord responded sarcastically.

"_Yes, _High Lord, I did challenge Regin to a formal battle." She raised her voice, almost irritably, and there was an edge to it now that Akkarin had not heard before.

"But, you must understand, Regin has been –"

""You did not think it prudent to ask – or even inform – me first ?" Akkarin interrupted her.

Sonea met his cold gaze defiantly. "But you must be aware that – "

"_You _must be aware that for a guardian to find out from someone else that his novice has made such a challenge ,_after _the event, is irritating at best – especially if that guardian is the High Lord!" His voice rose, just a fraction, but it was enough.

Sonea's cheeks were flaming in her white face now, and her hands were balled into tight fists at her sides.

"I – am sorry, High Lord." She forced out the placatory words, though she keenly felt the injustice of his rebuke when she was sure he must have heard the rumours of Regin's bullying.

"But-" she began. Once more, she got no further.

"No 'buts', Sonea." Akkarin's voice was cold, with no sign of understanding. "You will consult with _me_, and no-one else, before making such decisions again. Is that clear?

Quietly, not quite submissively: "Yes, that is clear High Lord."

"Good," Akkarin said tersely, though there was another emotion in his face that she couldn't place.

"Now," he continued more softly, " please stop doing that - you will draw blood."

Sonea frowned and followed his gaze down to her clenched hands at her sides. Her nails were biting livid crescents onto the soft flesh of her palms. She suddenly became aware of the sharp pain and abruptly she straightened her fingers, flexing them.

Akkarin turned away, but not before Sonea noticed the furrow of his brow. Concern? His next words crushed that notion within her.

"I could put up with a wilful novice gladly, _if _such headstrong behaviour was matched with skill in the Arena. " He folded his arms across his chest.

"Now, I suggest you go back to your room and study your notes from Warrior classes. I must go and quell the excitement of the Night Room-" he paused - "_and _inform Lord Yikmo that he has extra duties this coming week."

The High Lord glanced back over his shoulder and gave Sonea a raking glance.

"I take it you have not told him yet either?"

Sonea shook her head feebly, her eyes firmly fixed on the floor.

"I thought not," his tone was low with disapproval. "Go!" He snapped in dismissal as she stood there rooted to the spot.

As she turned and walked quickly back to the stairs, Akkarin called to her.

"Sonea?"

"Yes, High Lord?" She turned towards him, brown eyes glinting furtively at him.

"It is a brave thing you have done. Stupid, but brave nonetheless."

Sonea frowned slightly, not able to read him, and not daring to try. She hesitated, not sure how to respond, but he turned away from her and glided to the door, his black robes rustling about him.

As the front door of his residence snapped shut behind him, Akkarin stood a moment, and a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. He strode in the direction of the Seven Arches and it spread across his face, his eyes sparkling. He was going to enjoy this. He was going to enjoy this very much indeed.

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Thanks for reading and please review! As always, thanks for all the fantastic support for my efforts - it means a lot!**


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